


Grey Eyes and Scratchy Sweaters//(sniper/spy) (clone AU)

by msaugust



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angry Spy, Blood and Injury, Cigarettes, Clones, First Fic!, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Making it up As I Go Along, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Road Trip!, Touching, Whump, nervous sniper, shy kisses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msaugust/pseuds/msaugust
Summary: Gray Mann has taken over Mann Co. The mercs are being let go, forced off the premise and ushered away. With a deadline of a day, they must pack their belongings away and find new lives, far away from the base.This situation suits Sniper quite well. He can make his way back to Australia and help provide for his ageing parents.But he's faced with a moral dilemma when his friend; an obligatory enemy who has a snappy attitude but a sweet smile, has news for him that makes his heart sink and question his true feelings. He has to decide whether to act on these feelings.The pair embark on a road trip across the country, unknowingly leaving a conspicuous track behind them.
Relationships: BLU Spy/RED Sniper, Sniper/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 108





	1. The Confidential Confidant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An injured Spy spends a bit of time with Sniper during battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Please excuse this long note before we begin. If you would like to skip and get to the story, go ahead but I ask you to read these few points beforehand. Tysm ;w;
> 
> -This is my first time posting a work. It isn't my best piece, but one I am passionate about and confident enough to post. So keep in mind I'm super inexperienced. I also have terrible grammar and spelling, some sentences might sound a bit off. 
> 
> -This is a CLONE AU, an AU I've brain vomited up. It might have been done before, and if so~ comment it below! I'd love to read it and credit the original creator.
> 
> -Basically, half of each team (RED & BLU) are clones, carbon copies of each mercenary, evenly dispersed between both teams. They are practically the same people, with hazy memories of their original counterparts, features and the like- aside from a few things such as personalities and looks (ie, hair, eye colour and so on.)  
> Sorry if its a strangely worded explanation. It will be explained a bit through the story, I promise!
> 
> -Also, have a great day! We’re all facing new issues this year so I hope you're doing ok :)

_Confidante. Con-fe-da-nn-t._

The BLU Spy groaned, gripping his side. He staggered down the cramped hallway, stepping over discarded weapons and severed limbs. The sound of war cries and bombs were far too close for comfort. His head felt full, but he filtered out specific words as best he could. 

_Rustic. R-uh-st-ick._

His footsteps became slow and his breaths laboured. He squeezed both his gaping wound and his blood-soaked knife in pain. Just a few more steps. A few more steps and he’d burst into the sniper’s nest and get what he needed. 

He gritted his teeth and squinted at the wooden door ahead of him, open just enough for him to see the Australian’s hunched back. The spy leaned against the wall, bleeding out painfully. An embarrassing grunt escaped him. He nearly tripped over himself as he pushed the door open with his aching shoulder. 

The sniper whipped around, kukuri brandished before him. He had a fine cut across his nose up to his forehead. His expression was curled up in anger. But once he recognized the spy’s features, his face melted into a wide cat burglar grin. “G’ day,” he greeted, his Australian accent like a twang in the ear. 

“ _Bloody hell_ , yer bleeding all over the place,” 

The spy shook his head and kept limping forward. His gloves were soaked as he reached out, pushing past Sniper, who had dropped his arms to his side. Spy landed and leaned heavily on a rickety table in the corner of the small room. He scrambled, looking under the rubbish stacked high on the counter. He threw a book aside, brushed countless mugs of coffee away and hissed at the Australian who just stood watching. 

“W-where is it?” he spluttered, his voice like hot tar. Sniper snapped back into action.

“Oh, _er_ , I used it earlier.” He craned his neck to have a good look at the hole in Spy’s ribs stupidly. 

“Argh, _putain!_ I _need_ a health kit!” The spy turned on his heel and shook the taller man with his free hand, the other gripping his side. 

“ _Right!_ No drama, I’ll go get one, there's one right outside the door, you must have just missed it when you came in, wouldn't blame you, it's got some banda-”

“ _Sniper!”_ Spy cried, exasperated. Sniper spluttered and hurried outside, dropping his knife. 

The spy sank to the floor, his back against the wall. He took his hand away from the wound, sucking on his teeth. He gritted through the pain as he peeled his torn blue suit away from the laceration. _Merde_. He closed his eyes and searched his frantic mind. 

_“Inclination,”_ he whispered to himself. He felt his head swirl and he suddenly couldn't tell which was up, like his body was underwater. He rolled his head back and curled his toes.

“ _Inclination_? That's a hard one,” noted the Australian buffoon.

Spy opened his eyes and scowled at the man towering above him. Sniper smirked and held a large health kit out in front of the spy’s nose. 

“ _What?”_ Spy snatched the box, flipping it open and balancing it on his shaking knees. He dug in eagerly, applying various articles to his gaping side. 

“Inclination, it's a mouthful, isn't it,” Sniper moved away from Spy, sitting on a small crate in front of the window, minding not to knock over his rifle. 

Spy unwound a bandage and tore it with his teeth, attempting to wrap it on the injury. “Sniper, what on earth are you speaking of,” he said impatiently.

Sniper took off his glasses and cleaned them absent-mindedly on his dirty, redshirt. “Every time you hurt yourself, you always mutter words you find difficult to yourself,” He pushed the tacky sunglasses back onto his long face. 

Spy stared at him. “How did you know that?” 

Sniper grinned and shrugged smugly. “You spend every evening bleeding out up here, and you’re quite the talker when yer loopy.”

Spy flushed, embarrassed and continued to try and tie a comically large amount of dressing to his side. “Yes, well it's difficult to learn _so many_ pointless words," he winced, "Repeating them helps me calm down when the _monsters_ on your team shoot me to pieces.” 

Sniper watched for about 30 seconds, while spy struggled with the gaze. Finally, he kneeled beside the Frenchman and took the bandages away, despite his hissing and scraping he received in return. 

With one arm, he held Spy still and the other removed the dirty and badly applied bandages to get a better look at the injury. Spy went limp at the cold air on his exposed skin and the pain that rushed through his body like poison. 

“ _Jesus_ , what did you do to yourself?” Sniper examined the gash, wiping it delicately and tearing a new piece of material to cover it properly.

“I didn't do it, _branleur_ , the pyro attacked me with an axe!” he suppressed a cry at Sniper’s cold, prodding fingers. Sniper crudely mocked him and finished plastering him up. 

“ _There_.” He admired his handy work, handed some painkillers to the smaller man and packed the remaining medical supplies away. Spy sighed and gratefully gulped the pills down dry. He wiped his forehead and attempted to stand up. 

Sniper pushed him back down sternly. 

“Painkillers don't fix you immediately,” he stated, turning back to the window and picking up his rifle. “Stay down until you’re rested.” He sat onto his crate and set his rifle onto the window cill comfortably.

 _He is back into the swing of a killer, instead of an awkward, tall oaf who dumbly speaks before he thinks,_ Spy spat to himself. 

But he obliged. He didn't want to admit it but he didn't want to have to face the respawn. It felt like having his insides squeezed out of him painfully slow. 

He pulled a cigarette from his jacket and lit it wearily. Sniper raised his rifle and stooped to the scope once more.

“What do you suggest I do instead?” the Frenchman asked. He watched a puff of smoke curl up to the wooden ceiling.

“You can come sit beside me and tell me where your _dear_ engineers’ put his sentry,” Sniper replied bluntly, yet the spy could hear a slight smile to his voice. 

He rolled his eyes and painfully scooted to the sniper’s side. He pushed himself up and sat on a discarded box, minding both his cigarette and wound. Sniper sat away from the scope and waited expectantly. 

Spy took a sarcastically large draw from his cigarette and blew the smoke in his opponents face. He didn't flinch, only smiled broadly behind his orange glasses.

“ _D'accord_ , ok.” Spy smiled back, defeated, and leaned to see out of the small, frameless window. He pointed at the rundown storage building in the centre of the battlefield. “See the blue light back there? That's a teleporter exit.” 

“Much obliged.” Sniper turned back to his rifle and aimed it, flawlessly shooting out the exit without a second thought. The pair snickered like children and ducked away from the window at the sounds of Engineer’s angry shouts. 

“Shhhhhh- Don't move,” tittered the Australian, pulling his rifle back to the window and expertly replacing the bullet to take out the engineer in the middle of his cries. Spy chuckled and guiltily thought about the way the engineer would complain about his poor teleporter later that night. 

“You got another durry?” Sniper asked, replacing another bullet. 

“ _Durry_?” Spy searched his aching head for a definition. It sounded like a vehicle. 

“Ay Mr dictionary, _a durry_. A cig.” He pointed at the cigarette in Spy’s hand. Spy looked at his hand and back to Sniper. “ _OH_! Of course. I apologize, your 'slang' is just so strange,” 

While he searched for a cigarette, the Australian smiled and kneeled to peep out of the window once more. He watched a RED soldier rocket jump awkwardly and obliterate a BLU scout under him. 

Spy poked Sniper’s shoulder and gave him a lit cigarette whilst crushing his own burnt-out nub with his shoe. Sniper thankfully took it and took a healthy drag. 

Spy also sat on his knees and peered out. He presumed they looked like asses, noses poking out, eyebrows furrowed, fingers gripping the wooden cill. 

“Do you see the opposite sniper tower?” Spy whispered, pointing a tired arm in the general direction. Sniper nodded and readied his rifle, scooting closer to the wall. “There's a level 2 sentry down there,”

“Aye, aye captain,” 

Sniper raised his gun and bit his cigarette between his teeth. 

_Bang_. 

“Well done!” chirped the BLU spy. Sniper grinned and blew smoke back into Spy’s face in return. 

“Very mature- ok how about that Heavy and Medic back there,” Spy waved to the pair standing on the control point idly talking despite the battle around them.

Sniper nodded and took a shot, taking out the medic. He swiftly replaced the bullet and aimed again, eyes squinting.

 _Bang_. 

“Bravo!” Spy beamed and watched Heavy crumple to the floor like a tower of bricks. 

The Australian sat back down and puffed some smoke away. “Thank you, you're too kind,” he mockingly bowed. Spy sat too and had another look at his dressed wound. Sniper watched him quietly. 

“You're not guilty that you’re helping the enemy team?” he asked, stretching his long legs and crossing his ankles.

Spy looked at him and flattened the torn suit around his injury. “It's a few kills in a worthless fight, it's not the end of the world for us,” he said curtly, the once-friendly tone had gone bone dry. 

They faced each other, Sniper’s legs very close to Spy’s own curled legs. They were silent for a bit. 

It'd been two months. Every day for two whole months the BLU spy would find wherever Sniper was camped and sit with him for a bit. And Sniper didn't understand why. He wasn't very good company, he just sat over his rifle, taking out as many shouting blue men as he could and grumbled every now again. 

But Spy always sat with him, injured or not. They chatted about nothing and everything. Once Sniper even let him take a shot with his prized rifle and the Spy tried his best to teach him a few words in french. They laughed, argued, debated and mocked each other. And when Sniper got uncomfortable with the spy's persistent company, he would make some sort of excuse for them to part ways. 

He didn't know why he did this. He loved the Frenchman's company but was so weirded out by how friendly he was. Compared to the spy on his own team, he was an angel from above. Humorous, polite and kind in his own way. But he always found a way to push him away. He was scared one day the spy wouldn't come back. 

Sniper tilted his hat back and checked his watch. “Aye fair enough I guess,” he moved his cigarette to the other side of his mouth. “Two minutes left in the round anyway,” he yawned. 

Spy nodded and got to his feet slowly. He wobbled a bit but refused to let himself fall in front of the red-shirted man sitting below him. Sniper rubbed his burnt out ‘durry’ on the floor and tossed it aside before standing up. He leaned his rifle against the wall and showed the limping man to the door. 

“I presume you’ll be back tomorrow, eh?” he grinned. The spy rolled his eyes and brushed past him.

“We’ll see how the day goes,” he huffed. 

Sniper followed him out to the empty hallway and watched him hobble away. 

“Good luck not dying out there,” he chuckled and closed the nest door behind him. Spy’s mouth thinned and he flashed the sniper a vulgar gesture. 

He could hear the Australian's goofy laugh ring in his head all the way back to the BLU base, where he collapsed onto a bench, holding his aching side.


	2. Mr Amenable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper has to prove to himself that he can shoot the spy without hesitation.

Sniper yawned and stretched his long arms over his head. 

The day had just begun, the fighting slowly revving up. December’s bitter morning air prickled the skin like a needle. The sky was an ugly stone  grey, threatening light rain or even thunder. 

From his new hiding spot, Sniper could see both teams tear at each other from below. It seemed that BLU was winning so far, but they were struggling to push their cart up a steep hill. 

Sniper inhaled and readied his rifle. Holding the scope up to his eye, he aimed steadily and took out a Demoman in one swift movement. 

The Australian watched calmly as the BLU team noticed the Demoman’s body and started shouting. They pointed at the roofs of the buildings that surrounded them and argued angrily. 

He took advantage of their fear and took aim again, trying to find an easy, still target. 

He landed on the spy. 

He paused. 

He didn't like the fact that he paused. He also didn't like the fact that the spy looked directly at him through the scope, a sharp expression on his face. 

Spy turned to his team and shouted something at them before jogging away, cloaked. 

Sniper sat upright. He rubbed his eyes and tried to steady his rifle again. He cursed at himself for being so slow. The cart had been pushed up the hill and turned a corner, behind a larger building. 

He stood and collected his things, throwing his rifle over his shoulder and brandishing his kukuri in case he met anyone on the way to his next hiding spot. 

Before he could even reach the ladder exit, the spy uncloaked before him. Sniper's heart dropped. 

“Good morning,” he greeted. 

Sniper lowered his knife awkwardly. “Hi,, i didn't hear you come in,” 

The spy ignored him, circling the taller man and tilting his head at the rifle across his back. “Is there something wrong with your gun?” he asked, hands neatly behind his back. 

“N-no,” Sniper answered dumbly. He sounded like a child who’d taken a biscuit without permission. 

“ _Ok_ ,” Spy looked out the window to where the cart once was, then back to his RED enemy, “Then why did you not shoot me through the head?” 

Sniper wrung his hands on the leather handle of the kukuri. “Dunno,” 

Spy smiled at that reply. “I’m going to stab you now,” 

Sniper suppressed an ugly splutter of surprise. “Alright then,” he stuttered. 

The Frenchman laughed and the sniper blushed. “You’re so amenable,” he chuckled, his accent rolling the word around like a feather.

“ _ Amenable _ ?” Sniper repeated, uneasy.

“Amenable. You’re very easy to persuade and control,” Spy answered simply. 

“Pfft, I'm _not_ controllable. I'm just-” he struggled to find the words, moving his hands to try and describe what he was saying like an idiot. He stopped miming with a sigh. 

It was raining now. Very lightly but the wind was blowing the rain droplets through the window and onto the wooden floor. 

“I’m just trying to make it look  _ realistic _ , right? Yer team isn't going to believe it if you climb up here and we both come out unscathed.” Sniper said at last.  “So I ain’t amenable, I'm... _Doing my part_.. by... letting you stab me.”

Spy looked at him evenly. His eyes were as grey as the sky. But they weren't ugly, Sniper told himself. The rain-filled clouds were an ugly, mopey colour.  Spy’s eyes were the opposite, they were a mysterious mist, rolling, swirling and deep, full of secrets. They flicked left and right, up and down, eating every bit of information they could get a bite of. And they went so well with his suit, the grey and navy blue complimenting each other. All together Spy was a stroke of dark colour, mixed perfectly to camouflage as one.

“Fair enough. Turn around please, Mr _Amenable_.” Spy said, flicking his knife open. Sniper turned. He closed his eyes tight. 

  
  


...

  
  


Round two was a disaster for the RED team. 

The cart was moving like it had a mind of its own, never seeming to stop to Sniper’s dread. He couldn't land a clean shot no matter how hard he tried. The after-effects of the respawn still had a grip on his body, making him want to keel over and vomit. 

He’d been blasted to bits by a soldier about a million times, stabbed with a bloody sword, ripped to bits by a minigun and set on fire like a tall, lanky piece of wood. 

He wanted to give up. But he knew he couldn't do that. He had to find that spy and shoot him. At least once. Prove he wasn't _'amenabubbles_ '. Or whatever the word was. 

He hid in plain sight, behind a couple of stacked barrels. He gripped his rifle tight and watched a suspiciously slow RED scout pass him, straight to the cart, eyeing up another RED heavy, who was more focused on milling down the opposing team. 

The sniper moved to another stack of boxes, carefully ducking and kneeling in order to stay hidden. 

“ _Okokalrightokalright,_ ” Sniper whispered to himself, raising his rifle, admittedly shaking.  He took aim and shot the scout, square in the head, thankful for how close he was. 

Spy’s body fell to the floor. 

Sniper jumped up in triumph, then sat back down in a hurry. Stupid mistake, a BLU pyro saw him straight away and carelessly threw a flare at him like it was nothing. 

  
  
  


Sniper had to sit down after he respawned. His head was spinning and he felt like he was still running around on fire. Nevertheless, h e smiled painfully to himself. He’d shot the spy. It was a risky guess, but who knew such a small thing as a scout running too slow was such a telltale sign. 

But as he sat on the bench, head in hand, he’d forgotten why he’d shot him in the first place. 

_Prove he wasn't controllable_ , that's right.  And he was able to shoot the spy without hesitation, despite their strange friendship. 

Yet Sniper bit his lip.  He really just wanted to sit on the floor of the sniper nest and smoke a cigarette with his grey-eyed friend, like they did day after day. 

Why haven't they done  _ that _ today? Was the spy getting bored? Had he said something wrong? Did he _do_ something wrong? 

Sniper sat upright and took off his glasses. 

Why did he care so much? The spy was his _enemy_ , for god’s sake. They were like night and day, different in every way. And if anyone found out about their daily visits, they’d surely be fired. He needed to stop letting the spy distract him. 

Sniper rested his head on the wall behind him and stared at the ceiling.

The grip of the respawn had a tight hold on him, but something worse pulled at his heart. Like claws, they stroked him and he shivered, inside and out. He rubbed his eyes and sighed at the administrator’s voice, screaming at them to stop the cart.

He stood up and put his glasses in his pocket, heading for the door. 


	3. Unemployed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mercs get some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how sticky and wrong this chapter sounds. I sometimes struggle to make dialogue sound "normal" if that makes sense. Like normal interactions. It always reads like they're reciting a script. Oh well ;__; I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I'm also still thinking of a name for the story- I got a great recommendation in the comments of the last chapter but I'm still thinking. Thank you for bearing with me :))

The sniper whistled to himself. The booming laughter and clamour coming from the mess hall were strangely welcoming, in that weird, friendly way. A smell of fresh coffee wafted into the hallway like a wind.

Sniper placed his hat and glasses delicately on the top shelf of his locker. He shed his uniform shirt and threw a scratchy sweater over his t-shirt, shivering at the cold evening air. He hated this time of year. It was far too frigid to sit outside and bask in the open, which was genuinely one of his favourite pastimes. Just to sit and listen to the outdoors go about life. But December's temperature had forced him inside. Inside and demanded he wears ugly sweaters. 

He was fiddling with his watch as the scout and Demoman passed him, arguing loudly. Scout wore a sickeningly bright green hoodie, and demo had opted to stay in his fighting gear, minus the heavy bombs he usually carried on his chest straps. 

“Yer a munchkin man ‘n you expect to beat  _ me _ ?” Demo asked, playfully shaking the young boy’s shoulder. Scout frowned and pushed away. 

“Yeah! I’ve arm wrestled dudes like 3 times bigger than you!” he snapped, and threw a crushed can at Sniper’s back.“Yo! Who would win in an arm wrestle?” he shouted at the Australian, who closed his locker slowly. 

Scout was half the size of Demo but certainly challenged him with his big and loud personality. 

Sniper grinned. He jogged to catch up with them and headed to the mess hall. “Yer telling me you haven't tried before?” he humoured.

Scout just snorted and Demo laughed. “Aye, I've tried lad. But ' _tiny_ ' here 's been too scared,” he replied, in an affectionately mocking tone. 

Sniper just smiled and shrugged. “Fair enough mate, I haven't beaten Demo yet. Nearly broke my arm last time,” he lied. 

Scout’s face blanched. 

They turned the corner to the hall and entered the bright room. The rest of the team went about their business, interacting and laughing together. 

Heavy and Medic discussed something enthusiastically at the table, hands grabbed wrapped mugs of coffee. The engineer tinkered with the fridge as usual and Spy watched him, blowing cigarette smoke to the ceiling, complaining about something pointless.

Pyro was furiously colouring a piece of paper with some green crayons while Soldier was trying to juggle cutlery. As soon as he saw the trio enter, he dropped the forks carelessly and shambled over to them. 

“ _Attention_ men! I am hungry!” Soldier saluted. Sniper winced slightly at his volume. 

“Soldier!” Demo greeted his friend with a grip of the shoulder, “Tell me, what would you bet on  _ me _ to win in an arm wrestle against dear  _ Scout _ here?” 

The soldier scratched his chin. 

“I would bet my left arm!” he declared proudly. 

Sniper waved his hands and Scout rolled his eyes. “ _ Nonononono _ , that's a  _ little _ much..” 

Demo laughed heartily and knocked on the soldier's helmet. Soldier scrunched up his face and thought hard. “How about  _ BOTH _ of my arms?” he asked. Sniper rubbed his eyebrow nervously. 

All of the mercs were paying attention as both Demo and Scout sat across from each other at the large dining table. Medic and Heavy moved their chairs away to give the rest of the group space to sit and watch. Even Spy huddled around to watch stiffly. 

“Alright everyone,” Sniper spoke up, “Once again, it's competition time. Demo and Scout are  _ finally _ going to have an arm-wrestling match. Would anyone like to place bets?” Chatter rose. 

“Oh, Soldier has bet both of his arms on,, er,, Demo,” he added quickly, Heavy gave him a look. 

Engineer shrugged and grinned, “Eh, why not. Scout; if you win I’ll buy you some of those energy drinks you like,” The boy cheered at that.  Pyro nodded and clapped joyfully, pointing and Scout and back at himself. 

Spy straightened his tie and put his hands in his pockets. “Demo, if you win I will pay you one hundred dollars,” he stated calmly. Demo’s face lit up and he rattled the table.

“Aye! Let's get this over with, I need that money!”

The pair clasped hands and put their free arms flat on the table. They braced themselves, Scout looking incredibly nervous. 

Soldier held their clenched hands and counted down. “Ready? Three, two,  _ one _ ,” and let go of them. 

The group cheered and shouted at the pair. Surprisingly, Scout was doing very well so far, he was holding Demo back decently. His face was incredibly red and his teeth gritted angrily. But the Scotsman took control, slowly forcing Scout’s hand to dip down, so his hand almost hit the table.  _ Almost _ . 

An excited Medic had his head at eye level with the tabletop, ready to announce as soon as the boy’s hand hit the counter officially. 

Suddenly for some reason, Demo’s fighting stopped and Scout pushed his large hand easily to the other side, hitting the table with a bang. He jumped up and cheered, hands in the air. 

But people weren’t cheering. Scout turned around confused at what the rest of the team were so focused on, rather than his epic win and Demo’s embarrassing defeat. 

He turned around, dropping his hands at the sight of Miss Pauling in the doorway.  “Miss P?” he asked, uncertain, face still as red as a tomato. 

The girl rubbed her eyes under her glasses and stepped into the light of the room. She carried a bundle of loose papers in her small arms, all different shapes and sizes.  Her hair was noticeably a mess, and what little makeup she wore was smeared. 

Heavy stood and guided her inside to take his seat. Everyone was silent. 

Miss Pauling only arrived on set days, once a month. For years this had been the way she organized her visits. She was an organized woman. She would never break this schedule. Everyone knew that. And she would certainly not arrive unannounced with such a scared expression on her face. 

They waited for her to speak first. Only the sound of her shuffling her papers onto the table and the steady hum of the fridge were to be heard.  She inhaled sharply and brushed her hands on her ruffled dress. 

“Redmond and Blutarch are dead,” she announced. Several mercs shuffled their feet and suppressed gasps. Soldier picked his nose, unbothered.

“The administrator went missing,” she checked her watch, “about 5 hours ago, without a trace”  Spy held the bridge of his nose whilst Medic rubbed his glasses on his shirt. 

“A man called, um,  _ Gray Mann _ has taken control. I've been sent to inform you that you’ve all been.. Well…  _ fired _ .” 

Everyone looked up. 

The quiet room broke out in cries of confusion and angry questions. Poor Miss Pauling sat in fear at the outcry around her. “Guys- Hey _please_ ,” she waved her hands after a long moment of arguing. The team quieted down, now quite concerned.

“I know this is happening so fast and without warning, and you must have so many questions,” she pulled a couple of sheets from the pile of papers, handing them around. Sniper took the paper handed to him wearily. 

“But I can't stay very long, I need to go and _enlighten_ the  BLU team,” she flipped a few of the pages up to read some lines. 

“I would like to speak to Pyro, Scout, Engineer and Demo _outside_ please,” 

The named men froze. The once ecstatic, red-faced Scout looked ill and pale. They filed out of the room behind her without saying a word. 

The five mercs remaining stood in silence, gripping stray papers. 

Spy looked at the Medic with a worried expression. This, in turn, worried Sniper. The RED spy was never nervous or distressed in any way, only poised and self-assured.  What was Spy disquieted with and what was Miss Pauling talking to the rest of the team about that was so secretive. 

Sniper scratched his nose and sat down heavily. Heavy and Soldier sat too, then Medic and Spy. They began to read their papers. A notice, detailing the rules to their firing, their last paycheck and the terms.

All of the words floated off the page as he tried to read. His head was too full.  _ Fired _ ? Just like that?  What about the past years? Does it just end? 

Well, then again, Redmond and Blutarch were dead so who were they fighting for? They didn't have heirs. But who was this Gray Mann? What did he want? And the Administrator was missing? Was it on her own accord?

Sniper put the paper down and ran a hand through his hair.  Only 10 minutes ago they were cheering over a good-hearted arm wrestle. Now they sat in silence, faces blank. 

“ _ Well _ , gentlemen” Spy placed his paper down too, straightening out the edges, “do you have any plans now that we’re...  _ Disposed of?” _

Medic sighed and folded his sheet. “I don't have any idea. ‘Ver else will I be able to do surgery and run on the battlefield at the same time?” 

Spy pulled out his cigarette case and offered the table. Medic and Sniper each took a cigarette gratefully and the three passed around a lighter.

“I will go back to my family. I have been gone for too long,” Heavy said simply, refusing a cigarette with a gentle wave. 

Soldier finished ripping up his paper and started making a small pile of the little shredded pieces. He was oddly quiet. 

Sniper ran his thumb across his cheek. “Yeah. I’ll probably go back to my family too.” 

No one bothered to ask the spy what he planned for his future. He would probably slink to some pocket of the world and work for rich men, ordered to kill other rich men. He was a spy. Spies, strangely, didn't have trouble finding jobs. They never went hungry. 

…

Sniper grimaced at the cold wind against his face as he stepped out of the base. He closed the door behind him and headed in the direction where he parked his camper. 

It was about seven in the evening, the sun had just gone down. The sky looked like chalk, blue fading into orange smoothly. It melted seamlessly into the flat expanse of the New Mexico desert. It was a beautiful sight but it was ruined by Sniper’s ill mood. 

He’d had a cold shower after he finished his cigarette. He wanted to wash his mind from the waves of thoughts crashing in his head. He felt sore. 

The Australian was regretting the choice to not dry his hair. He was freezing. He also regretted parking his camper so far from the base. He liked his privacy, but at that moment he really preferred being wrapped in warm blankets. His scratchy sweater was as effective as a piece of baking paper. 

The group called out by Miss Pauling did not return to the mess hall. They were not showering. They were not outside. They were nowhere to be found. Maybe they were in their rooms, but this bothered Sniper. Why were they hiding away? 

Why were they called out in the first place? And as he pondered, the questions about his future started to filter in. 

He would go back to Australia? Well, yes of course, where else would he go? _Ok_ , he’d live with his parents, help provide for them, despite his dad’s everlasting hatred for his son's job. It made decent money and that's all that mattered. As long as he could fund a good living for his parents, get his mum some new gardening equipment, buy his dad a new car, then he’d be happy. He’d be happy. He would never have to feel the grip of respawning again. 

He was so deep in thought, biting his lip furiously and looking down at the floor, that he didn't notice how close he was to the camper. He reached and fumbled in his pocket to find his keys. He looked up to the camper door and jumped at the man in blue staring at him. 


	4. Mon Dieu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper and Spy sit down to have a conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again. Sorry for the short chapter~~  
> 

“ _ Bloody hell, _ you scared the shit out of me!”

The spy narrowed his eyes and ground his cigarette out on the side of the camper, to Sniper’s dismay. 

Strangely, the french man wasn’t wearing his balaclava. Sniper had never seen him so exposed. If  _ ‘exposed’ _ was even the right word. Maybe  _ ‘ordinary’ _ was more appropriate. 

The spy looked  _ ordinary _ , standing with a grim frown on his face. His black hair was a lot curlier than Sniper envisioned, with flecks of grey thanks to rough years. It was cropped neatly close to his ears but was let to grow longer and messier on the top. 

He had to fight the urge to run his fingers through the mane to settle it. But that thought embarrassed him so he looked away, focusing on Spy’s wavering expression. He noted, oddly, how puffy the man’s eyes were. It was just subtle enough to not notice unless you were studying him like a book. His tie was loose and untidy also. Very uncharacteristic for the neat, well-dressed spy. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Sniper asked, slipping his keys back into his pocket, “Soldier  _ will _ shoot you on sight if he spots you on our grounds,” 

Spy didn’t answer. He stood still for a few seconds before hiding his face in his hands and drooping his shoulders.  “Spy?” The Australian took a cautious step forward, hand outstretched to support the shorter man. 

Spy shook his head and collapsed into Sniper’s chest. He gripped his enemy’s arm and began to sob, heaving in small fits. He shook meekly like a child. 

Sniper couldn’t move. Warm tears soaked his sweater. His head spun.  _ What the hell is going on? What the  _ fuck _? Spy-  _ Spy!- _ was crying on him _ . _ Could today get any weirder?  _

It was like a strange fever dream. He wouldn't be surprised if it started raining frogs.  This was  _ bad _ . Whatever he was crying about was definitely bad. Spy was a poised and collected man, never showing any emotion or fear. Bad probably wasn't a word serious enough. 

Spy’s nails dug into Sniper’s biceps, snapping him out of his frantic thoughts. Instinctively, Sniper put his arms awkwardly around Spy’s shoulders and rested his chin on top of his curly hair.  Spy was quiet now. His face was still pressed against the tall man’s chest and tears still streamed down his cheeks. But he wasn't sobbing anymore. Sniper rubbed his suited back softly and took a deep breath. 

“I'm going to go inside the camper and get us some beers,” he stated in a smooth tone, “and then we can sit and talk out here,  _ ok _ ?” 

Spy sighed and nodded. 

Sniper stepped back and Spy wiped his eyes sheepishly. He tried to give him a reassuring smile but the spy just looked down and walked a few meters away to a stray telephone pole. He fished a new cigarette from his pocket. 

Sniper quickly found his key and kicked his camper’s door open. He climbed inside and shut the door behind him, leaning against it for support. 

He couldn't think of a curse crude enough to shout so he stood in silence. He bit his nails in a nervous habit and tapped his foot, thinking hard. 

Jesus, maybe this was about everyone getting fired. He needed to find out what was wrong. Well, first things first he needed to make Spy feel better.  _ Then _ he’d ask what was up. Yeah, good plan, he reassured himself. 

But he paused mid-thought. That deep hole in his stomach made him want to keel over. He hadn't had an interaction so close in so long. Be it a friend sobbing into his shoulder, it was intimate and unearthly. And coming from Spy, Sniper could have sunk to his knees and melted into a pool of embarrassed tears. But he couldn't leave Spy outside. 

He pushed himself to life and staggered around his cramped camper, throwing off his wet sweater and searched for a dry one. He reluctantly grabbed a new jumper that seemed to be even scratchier than the one before. He snatched up an old knitted blanket from his chair and two beers from the fridge before slinking back out of the camper. 

He juggled the items over to Spy, who had sat down on the curb a little way off and staring at the clouds.

The sky was a dusty orange now, sweeping over them like a heavy bedspread. The wind had settled but the cold air still clung to Sniper’s cheeks, reddening his tanned face. 

When he reached the smaller man, he gently placed the blanket around his hunched shoulders. He plopped down onto the curb beside his colleague, stretching his long legs out. 

Spy gave him a sad glance and silently offered him a cigarette. Sniper shook his head, “I've already had one today, but thank you,”

Spy chuckled quietly and tucked his case away. The man in blue popped the caps off their beers while Sniper struggled to throw on his sweater. 

They sat together quietly, studying their beers like they were the most interesting things in the world. Sniper waited patiently for Spy to speak. 

Finally, he ran a hand through his curly hair and blew away a stray puff of smoke. “I apologize for how.. _unprofessional.._ I was,” 

Sniper placed his beer down and faced the spy. “It's  _ alright _ , just please be honest and tell me what's happening,” he sounded desperate. He _was_ desperate. He didn't like seeing the spy like this. 

Spy’s mouth formed a thin line. His eyes darted between the cigarette in his fingers and the orange sky above them. “You heard the news, yes?” he asked eventually. 

Sniper nodded slowly. “Yeh,” Spy didn't give any inclination to want to continue so Sniper spoke instead.

“I thought you’d be ecstatic about being fired. Go back to yer life of crime and spy nonsense.” 

Spy looked at him dead in the eye, his perfect eyebrows furrowed. “ _ Quoi _ ?” 

Sniper glanced away and waved his hands dismissively. Those grey eyes made him sweat. “I mean, you’ll get to get out of this place, go back to France or whatnot, do french stuff,” He blabbered.

Spy had abandoned his cigarette and beer to glare at the taller man. “Sniper,  _ mon Dieu,  _ i am a clone- did you not know?” 


	5. A Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair have a back and forth conversation in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Another weird, short chapter coming right up! Enjoy! ;w;

Sniper whipped around and stared at the other man in horror. In the confusion, he kicked his beer bottle over. Spy grumbled at the beer that spilt on his expensive shoes. 

“You're- I-  _ What _ ?” Sniper spluttered, eyes wide.

Spy’s expression wavered. “ _ Yes _ , was it not obvious?” Sniper titled back a little. “ _ No _ ?” he cried. Spy bit his lip and shrugged away, playing with a corner of the blanket around him. 

“Well, I don't know what else to tell you,” 

Sniper started to bite a nail furiously before asking, “Ok so, you’re a clone, no big deal, no issue. But what's the link between being fired and being a...  _ Copy _ of someone else.” 

“ _ D'abord _ , I am not a  _ copy _ of someone else,” the smaller man snapped, “There is a difference between  _ me _ and the  _ vache _ that I, unfortunately, have the job of resembling,” 

“Right, sorry,” 

“ _ Deuxièmement _ , they are  _ disposing of _ us, if you were to put it in a nice way,” he said with weary air quotes. At that, he shook his head sourly and took a hearty swig of beer. 

“They-They can’t do that!” Sniper fell over his words clumsily, “You’re a..”

“I’m a  _ what _ ?” The Frenchman asked, exhausted. His eyes were no longer puffy, but they were certainly tired. 

“You’re a  _ person _ ,”

Spy scoffed and put his empty bottle down carefully. “No, I'm not,” he replied simply. 

Sniper waved a hand in distress. “ _ YES _ you are, and they can't just put you down like a dog!” His heart was beating out of his chest. He thought his head would explode pretty soon. He couldn't imagine how the other man felt, the thought of death hanging heavy on his shoulders. He didn't want to imagine how he felt. He watched him throw away his burnt-out cigarette butt. 

Spy sighed and screwed up his face ever so slightly. “To them, I am  _ less _ than a dog. I was created to kill  _ you _ and nothing else.” He emphasised ‘you’ by jabbing a finger into Sniper’s scratchy sweater. 

The Australian was speechless. He sat, jaw tight, staring worthlessly at his friend. He wanted to do something.  _ Anything _ . This was so impossibly strange. Did the cooperation that hired them even care? Were they so heartless? Would they really put all nine clones down, like sick animals who had no chance at life? 

Spy seemed to know exactly what Sniper was thinking. His eyes clouded over and he picked once more at the corner of the blanket. “It is only fair. It would be wrong to have two men of the same mould walking free.” 

Things seemed to click together in his mind. The teammates, who were called away from Miss Pauling.  _ Jesus Christ _ , they were clones too. Sniper felt like an idiot. It was right in front of him the whole time. 

He then felt his heart plummet. His friends. Were they...  _ Disposed of? _ Would he ever see them again? Demo? Pyro? Scout and Engie? All his good memories came flooding to him, and he wanted to scream at the sky. He didn't- _wouldn't_ let this happen to Spy. 

He didn't want to go back to the days where he didn't wrestle with those deep grey eyes and bicker endlessly over stupid things. He wanted to be with the snappy Frenchman every day, patching up his terribly dressed wounds and sharing cigarettes. 

Sniper glanced back down at the spy. He was hunched over, staring at his fidgeting hands. He still had to fight the urge to run his hand through that curly hair. 

“So what are you going to do?” He asked carefully.

Spy raised his eyebrow. “Hm?”

“Are you going to let them scotch you?” Sniper clarified, “Or are you going to do something about it?” 

Spy seemed to imagine a million things at once. His eyebrows furrowed and he struggled to find words. Sniper smiled cautiously. “Have you never thought about running away before?” 

At that Spy sat bolt right up. The worn blanket slipped onto the dusty floor around his hips. “ _ Boucle-la! _ We would never getaway in one piece! And where would we go?” 

Sniper scratched his eyebrow absent-mindedly. “Drive to god knows where prolly. Go somewhere.” Spy shook his head and grumbled something in french. 

The Australian tilted his head.“How did you even get out here? Did Miss Pauling not ask you outside to.. Y’know.. Do whatever?” 

Spy tapped his watch. “It was not very difficult. I cloaked when she got distracted. I knew something was wrong.” He looked around. “And, we are far enough from my base so I do not have to worry about her for a while.”

Sniper picked the blanket up off the floor and draped it around the smaller man once more. “Then let's do it. Come with me and we’ll find somewhere safe for you to stay,” he thought out loud. 

Spy’s hand clasped around Sniper’s as he carefully placed the blanket on his shoulders. Sniper froze at the feeling of gloved fingers covering his own. 

“Sniper, you are not going to do this. It is far too dangerous. I am putting your life at risk by even sitting with you,” he warned, eyes sincere and wide. The taller man thought he was going to drown in grey as it seeped through him, filling every crack in his heart. How could anyone dismiss something so mysterious and beautiful? 

“O-Oh? How so?” he tried to keep his cool but he pulled his hand away. Spy huffed and swept his arms wide. 

“ _ Je ne sais pas! _ But when Miss Pauling is given an order, you know she will complete it even if it's the last thing she will ever do! And if she's' willing to kill me, she will not think  _ twice _ about getting you out of the way,” 

Sniper tried not to tap his foot furiously. “I-” He was at a loss for words. 

The past eight years had been so easy. Every day was the same, despite the monthly map changes. It was rinsed and repeat, and he never had to worry about his future, let alone death. Death was a joke to the mercenaries. Respawn was so easy thanks to the uber chip in their heart and they had become careless. Careless and lazy. 

Now, in a matter of hours, Sniper had lost his job, his friends and was now debating whether he wanted to go on the run with a clone. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it. God, his dad was going to disown him. 

“Spy,” he started. Spy looked up at him. “ _ Please _ , come with me. I will never be able to live with myself if I leave you here. I’ve already lost too many friends tonight. I'm not letting you go too.” 

Spy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He smiled wearily and laughed out loud. Sniper almost jumped. Spy laughed his head off, cackling like a witch. But to the Australian, it was like music to his ears. Like an angel singing to him. The Frenchman leaned against Sniper’s shoulder to stay balanced. He laughed and laughed, ever so sweetly. Sniper felt his face redden and he batted Spy away. “ _ What _ ? Why are you laughing?”

Spy wiped his wet eyes and buried his face into his red companion’s sweater. “You are insane.” 

Sniper cracked a timid smile and allowed the man to rest on him. “Eh, I know.” 

They sat together for a bit longer before he felt Spy shiver against him. He tried to wrap the blanket tighter around him. “Are you getting cold?” 

The spy nodded and sat up once more. “Though I would love to sit out here with you all night, I would like to ask if we could move our conversation inside,” he waved to the camper a few meters away. Sniper agreed and stood up, collecting the discarded beer bottles. He helped Spy up and they made their way to the ‘humble abode’. 

Sniper wanted to weep. Weep and sink into the ground where no one would bother him. His chest felt tight and he feared his lungs might collapse. His shoulder still felt heavy from where Spy leaned against him. 

He couldn't stand how calm Spy was. He understood some people take terrifying news differently, but life-threatening news was a poles apart. If Sniper was a clone, he would probably melt on the spot. Melt into a grey-eyed loving puddle. 

“Sniper?” 

Sniper snapped out of his embarrassing thoughts and smiled at his friend. “Yeh?” 

Spy pointed at the beer bottles. “I am going to sound like an immature teenager, but,” he paused as Sniper stepped forward to open the camper, “I would like to get  _ very _ drunk tonight,” 

It was the Australian's turn to laugh now. “Aye, I can help with that weird request. Now come inside, it's cold as shit out there,” 


	6. Seven beers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy lurks around the camper when hes left alone

Spy rolled over to lie on his back. 

The first thing he noticed was how bright the camper got in the morning. The small curtains covering the windows were thin and useless, still drawn wide open. There was a Velux window above his head too, which was opened an inch. Light raindrops filtered in and showered faintly onto his warm face. He squinted and turned his head away. 

The second thing he resentfully noticed was the pain in his head. It pounded like someone was drilling into his temple. He’d never been very good at juggling drinks and got drunk pretty easily, leading to desperately hungover mornings often. He checked his watch quickly.  _ Merde _ , 08:32, that's depressing. Hungover and can’t even sleep past noon. 

As he turned once more to cradle his head, the smell washed over him. It was so overpowering and deep. It was comforting and warm yet so very difficult to put a finger on. It just smelt like  _ him _ . Of Sniper. It was almost intoxicating, like a strong beverage brewed with summer berries. It smelt like his hair, his clothes, his smile, his movements. It was earthy and dirty but clean and fresh at the same time, there was so much of it but there wasn't enough. He wanted to hold it tight like a cat's tail. Hold it and stroke it and keep it close to his chest. He bundled the worn pillow under him to hug it harder. 

Subsequently, after drooling over the aroma rolling over him he realized where he was. 

And why there was so much to smell.

He opened his eyes properly and sat up immediately, ignoring the pang in his head.  _ “Oh merde sacrée,”  _ he hissed and pushed the heavy covers off his body. He was fully clothed, which was a good sign. He sat in his shirt, dress pants and socks, all wrinkled and shabby. 

He whipped around to check the camper, holding his temple gently. The pain between his eyes was too much to handle and he cried out in distress, “Mi-  _ Sniper? _ Where are you?” 

Sniper sat bolt right up, smacking his head on a low hanging shelf above the small camper sofa. He cursed and clutched the shelf for balance. 

“ _ What _ ?! What's wrong?” he exclaimed, just as shocked and dazed. He was curled up on the couch a little ways away, still in his undershirt and pants. His hair was a real sight, standing up on end and fluffy. It looked like a russet-coloured tumbleweed had found its way onto his head. But he looked fine, great even. Much better than what Spy expected he looked like himself. Probably a blue mutt, with matted fur and a foaming mouth.

Spy tilted his aching head and looked nervously at the taller man. “We'd-didn't,, did we?” 

Sniper’s face blanched and he shook his head furiously, waving his hands. “NO! I would never, you- i-, no i wouldn’t!” he spluttered. Spy let out a sigh of relief and collapsed back onto the bed. He didn't want their first night to be like..  _ That _ . It had happened to him before with others and he never wanted it to happen again. First impressions count, and one night stands were not the ideal choice to start off with. 

He tried to recount what happened the night before but his mind pulled a blank. All he could remember is sitting down with Sniper with some beers and talking about their best headshots. 

Sniper kept talking, although Spy’s head was too crowded to understand any of his words. He was stooping around the camper, picking up the sweater that had been left on the floor. He politely picked up Spy’s blazer and placed it on the small dining table. He gathered a belt and a full rubbish bag from the kitchenette before stepping into his boots and turning to his guest. 

“I'm going to head over to the base and collect my things,” he said, grabbing a chain of keys, “Don’t do anything until I get back, we don't want anyone seeing you in here,” 

Spy squinted at him from where he lay. “You're not hungover?” he questioned. 

Sniper smiled and opened the door. “No mate, I'm not a lightweight like you.  _ And _ I only had one drink,” he stepped outside. 

“ _ Attendre _ ! Wait!” 

Sniper peeked inside again. The french man felt foolish as he asked: “how many did I have? Drinks, that is," 

Sniper smirked again and shook the trash bag in his hand, which tinkled with bottles. “Lost count at seven beers,” he raised an eyebrow, “Do you not remember anything?”

Spy hid his face in his hands and swore. Did he have no decency? Seven beers? “No,” he admitted grimly. Sniper just chuckled “Good for you,” and closed the camper door behind him with a  _ click _ . 

Spy tried to ignore the embarrassment stinging his sides and searched his mind to find some words to practice and calm his aching head. ” _ Rea-son-able, _ ” he hissed, eyes closed. That word was hard to say. Just as hard as it was to be reasonable. A reasonable person who didn't drink until they forgot the events of the night before. “Genuine- hungover-  _ stupid _ ,” 

Spy sighed into his hands and looked through his fingers around the camper. While Sniper was out he might as well look around. Get to know his surroundings. Get to know his host more. Maybe wash off the smell of the Australian which made the spy feel ill with guilt. 

He sat and slid off the worn camper bed. He made it swiftly, tucking the sheets and covers neatly. He untied his tie and placed it neatly beside his blazer. He checked his blazer quickly too, locating his gloves, cigarettes and knife safely in the pockets. Great. Now- _Where to begin?_

He started by looking at the small pictures on the shelves above the sofa. They were very old, with rusting metal frames, some without frames altogether and were rather stuck to the wall. In them, a younger-looking Sniper smiled beside friends and family. 

One had him holding an impressively large trout beside what Spy presumed to be his father. They didn't look very similar. Sniper’s eyes were softer and his hair was a wild mess. By the looks of the man he stood beside, he was sharper, pointer and his hair was thin and combed back. His lip was curled into a plain smile whilst Sniper grinned warmly. 

There was even a photo of Sniper at highschool graduation. He wore a comically oversized graduation cloak and hat, holding a paper and beaming like an angel. His parents were there, both smiling mother and stern father, and a  _ girl _ . A girl who was pecking Sniper’s cheek. Spy looked away. He was stupid to care about an old photo from the 50s of a friend getting a simple kiss, but it still itched at his hungover mind. 

A few trophies and other collections sat beside the photographs. Most were for stereotypical Australian activities, such as fishing, hunting as well as animal care and even some badges from boy scouts. There was an impressive animal skull, from a dingo no less. And a little plack with butterfly wings. Very intricate. 

He moved onto the kitchen. He searched the cupboards for something interesting or edible. There was barely anything. Firestarters, two cups, three or four plates, old pot and pans, mismatched cutlery and a sad-looking toaster. The lack of food was concerning; he only found an out of date cereal box and a loaf of bread. 

The small refrigerator was just as eventful. There was a glass bottle of milk, some jam and butter. Spy frowned at the lack of beer. “ _ Ivrogne _ ,” he snapped at himself and shut the mini-fridge door. 

He decided the best way to get a bit soberer was to brew a big cup of coffee, despite how much he hated the beverage. It was too bitter and hard in his mouth. It made him wince. Either way, he grabbed a decently clean mug and fiddled with the coffee machine until he had a cup full.

Spy sipped his drink and searched the other cupboards around the camper. He found where Sniper kept his clothes, (just a few hand-knitted jumpers, socks, undergarments, uniform shirts and those tacky pants he wore.)

As he wandered, he tried his best to recount the events of the night before. He was picking up pieces slowly, misty conversations and the sounds of laughter and playful jeers. 

“ _ Widow _ ,” he tested, cradling his mug, the word light on his tongue and the ‘w’ hard to pronounce. “ _ Wind, window, wellbeing,”  _ he sounded like a fool he guessed, but no one was around. His English was outstanding, but the little things beat him down. ‘W’s and ‘h’s were usually the problems. 

He sat back onto the bed. Not even 20 minutes and he was bored. How could Sniper be so  _ boring _ ? Those photographs were interesting but sad. The whole camper was sad in fact. It was a bachelors nest, a worn and falling apart car where an ageing man lived, alone and away from the things he loved; animals and family. Spy bit his nail anxiously. A sad house on wheels where he hid people who were supposed to be dead. Spy ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair and stood to pace. 

He couldn't stay. No way. He couldn't stay and mooch off of Sniper, sleep in his bed, take up limited space and stop him from getting home to Australia. He was putting his friend at risk, who knows who would track him down to kill him. 

Yes ok, Spy would write a note for when Sniper got back and be honest. “Hello Sniper, you are a good friend. But I cannot stay. I am going to figure this out myself!” he practised.

No that's not right.  _ This isn't a joke _ , Spy spat to himself. 

“Sniper, my friend. I cannot put on the weight of my burden on your shoulders. You are in danger of harbouring me. I will take care of myself, you need to go to your family in Australia.” Yes, very good. That's better. Professional and serious. 

Spy collected his blazer and tie, slipped into his gloves. He kicked on his shoes and tied his laces quickly. He sighed heavily and paced back to the centre of the camper. “Where does one keep a notepad and pen?” he questioned out loud. His head was still panging in pain as he stepped around carefully. 

He checked the kitchen cupboards and shelves. Nothing but gathering dust and socks. He spun on his heel and faced the one thing he hadn't checked in the room. The nightstand. 

He had been, quite frankly, too embarrassed. People kept personal things in their dresser drawers, be it letters from affairs, very  _ personal _ objects, medication or condoms. Spy had not wanted to stumble across _any_ of these things. But, what did he have to lose? If he was going to leave, he probably wasn't ever going to see Sniper again. He stifled a sigh, placed his mug down and opened the drawer of the nightstand reluctantly with a tug. 

There were three things of note in the drawer. A couple of sticky notes with a pen ( _ Remercier le diable ci-dessous! _ ), a novel and another photograph amongst some loose change, tissues and other junk. 

Spy cautiously picked up both the photo and book. The book was small. It had a red cover with a crude heart-shaped map and a big yellow title reading “ _MAX_ ”. He skimmed the blurb at the back. It sounded like a shit story, about a guy named Max who travelled the world trying to find his long lost love. Who names a book after _themselves_? Idiotic. 

He turned his attention to the photo. Once again it was worn by sunlight, and torn at the edges. In it, Sniper had his arms around some friends. He noted the girl who had kissed his cheek during his graduation was there, grinning with lots of teeth. They were all very smiley and out-backy. One had a fishing rod, another had a big fish. 

“Do they do anything other than kill  _ fish _ ?” Spy mused. A little date and names were scrawled in a messy font on the back;  _ 1959, August 16th, Juno’s birthday fiasco _ .

He placed the book and photograph back where he found it and took a sticky note to write on. The pen took a few tries before any ink came out. He scribbled his message from earlier on it and placed it gently on the bed before stomping to the exit. 

Guilt filled his stomach as he lingered at the door. He rubbed his forehead and groaned. He had to leave, he couldn't stay and beat Sniper down with his presence. It was  _ dangerous _ , end of the story. But  _ why _ ? He couldn't move. He was stuck in place, a stoney feeling in his heart kept him still. 

_ It was dangerous _ , he told himself angrily,  _ because I am a dead man walking, and Sniper should not have to look after me like I am a child.  _ Fair point. Spy put his hand on the door handle. 

But  Sniper _ - _ He had lost so many people, almost his whole team yesterday. Spy should at least say goodbye, right? Right. Of course, be polite, be _reasonable_. 

Wait- no! That would make it worse! Just leave now, like ripping off a bandaid, it won't hurt as much if you do it quickly. Cloak and hide somewhere, catch a bus into town and find out what to do then. Steal some money, for god's sake, kill if necessary. You can't stay here anymore. 

The photos of Sniper beaming lining the shelves dug holes into the back of Spy’s neck. He turned around to give the camper a final glance. The yellow sticky note sat glaring at him. It burnt scars into him. It made him melt with fear. 

He stormed over to the note and snatched it up, re-reading it furiously. He sounded too  _ bitter _ . He didn't want his last words to his friend to be  _ ‘bitter’ _ . He picked the discarded pen up again and prepared to write a new message. 

At that moment the memories from last night hit him all at once. He cringed and placed his pen down swiftly. He cursed foully and crumpled the note in his palm. 

He could see his drunk self, getting far too comfortable with the sober sniper, leaning against him and asking foolish questions. Did he have no control?  _ Seven drinks and you're trying to clamber onto your friend, good lord get a hold of yourself _ , he spat to himself. 

Spy  _ had _ to leave now. There was no way he could look at Sniper the same way again, let alone live with him. He uncrumpled the note and hurriedly threw it back onto the bed, fleeing to the door. 

There were things Spy would not miss of Sniper. His loud barking laugh. His messy habits of throwing his discarded sweaters onto the floor. His foot taps and twitches. His strange slang, he certainly didn't mind eating in front of others, and as of last night,  _ his snoring. _

But- There were things he’d severely miss. His warm voice, his soft eyes, his generosity, his hands, his hair, his--

The door opened and Spy jumped back, fists raised in a mix of self-defence and genuine fear. Sniper stood in the doorway, holding a box of loose possessions, eyes wide. “ _ Jesus Christ _ what’s wrong? Seen a ghost?” He asked, stepping aside and squeezing past the man in blue. 

He placed the box onto the counter and closed the door behind him. Spy gathered his senses and dropped his arms. He was too slow and was now stuck with having to say goodbye in person. Oh, it's fine, it'll be easy, it's just Sniper. They were adults, he would understand.

But as Sniper turned around to give the spy a reassuring smile, he melted. How could he leave Sniper? He was so happy and content to have Spy around, even if he was like a house cat who yowled and complained. 

And obviously, Sniper didn't mind too much about his friend getting a bit too friendly last night. It was just that, _t_ __oo_ friendly _ , nothing less, nothing more. It was very grown-up of him to ignore it, he understood that it wasn't worth ruining their relationship over. 

Sniper jingled his keys and grinned. “Ready to get out of this hellhole?” he asked. 

Spy nodded and smiled wearily, “Ready when you are,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update and frankly terrible writing! i also finished reading 'He's a Rebel' by usedtobehmc and i HAVENT been the same since lmao  
> thank you so much for sticking around


	7. RED Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Pauling and the RED spy argue over the BLU's whereabouts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was whipped up super quick, so excuse its dry and simple dialogue

Miss Pauling cried into her hands and shuddered meekly. She wept and wiped her eyes under her glasses. She felt so dirty, guilt and sickness washing over her like a blanket. She felt so much older, aged by the bullets she'd left in people's heads. Felt as though her stomach was lined with lead, dragging her down, pulling her to hell. 

Spy looked at her from across the room and sighed into his cigarette. He knocked on the table between them, frightening her out of her trance. She sat up properly and sniffled, fighting more sobs. He raised an eyebrow. “ _Well_? You were saying?” 

They were sitting in the small RED break room. The lights were off, the blinds were drawn and the fridge hummed quietly in the corner. The pair was at the dining table, Miss Pauling was sitting at one side, Spy was pacing at the other. It was cold. And so very quiet. 

She nodded and swallowed. “I'm sorry,” she cleaned her glasses, “I couldn't find the BLU spy,” 

Spy stood very still. His cigarette burned in his hand, wasting away as he looked at her dead in the eye. “You couldn't  _ find _ him?” His back was illuminated by the lights in the hallway, the only light source. She could see his face, but most of it was hidden by shadows. 

Miss Pauling picked at her chipped nails. “I was distracted.”

“ _ Distracted _ ?” he spat, almost crunching his cigarette in his hand.

She tried to defend herself; “It isn't easy shooting your colleagues in the head Spy! I got distracted!” 

Spy rubbed his temple and faced away from her. “And yet you let, frankly, the most dangerous of the clones escape?” 

Miss Pauling squeaked. “I  _ didn't _ just let him walk away! He cloaked! I lost count of who I had,,,  _ gotten rid _ of,” At that she sobbed into her hand once more.

Spy groaned and swerved around. “You understand what you’ve done girl, _don't you?”_ he asked, furious. He slammed his hands onto the table. 

She looked at him through her fingers. He scoffed at her and continued, “He’s a copy of me, in looks _and_ talents,” he tried to compose himself, straightening my tie. “The man could  _ ruin _ me if he were to get far enough out there. I have a reputation to uphold,” 

Miss Pauling pondered for a moment. “He doesn't look exactly like you,” Spy looked like he was going to burst. “ _ What _ ?”

“Well _no_ , we made sure they had a few differences. He's got darker hair, different eyes for sure, not as tall, you sound deeper-” She realised her corrections definitely weren't helping his mood. 

“I don't care what he looks like, I need him  **dead** !” he snapped, smothering his cigarette into the table. He turned away and held the bridge of his nose. “How on earth did Helen ever leave important decisions in your hands,” he growled.

Miss Pauling frowned. He was right. What was she doing? She had been working for the Administrator for eight years now. She was a terrible assistant, she thought. She was clumsy and nervous. She always forgot to organize her files, lose important documents and never brought enough ammo with her. 

But she thought about the terrible things her boss had made her do over the years. Nothing a normal, functioning assistant should have to withstand, taking out many men who got in the way of the work or organizing hits. She shuddered at the fact she had stopped counting the number of people she’d killed almost four years ago. It was horrific, disgusting, even tragic. She would never be able to live a normal life again, never get a normal job, a normal family or normal friends. 

And then she thought about the last job the Administrator had ever given her.  _ Kill the clones, run _ . Kill her teammates, friends, colleagues? The fact Miss Pauling had actually done the job too caused her to cry weakly. Why had she done it? She could have just run, run far away and let the clones live. But no, she had to please her abusive boss. Make her proud. She hoped Helen was dead in a gutter somewhere right now, with her face stomped in. 

“Pauling,” Spy had lit a new cigarette. 

Miss Pauling sat up properly once more and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry,” 

“What are you going to do?” he asked impatiently. He leered down at her, arms crossed, the stench of smoke so strong in the room. He was a gross man. 

“ _What am I going to do?_ ” she repeated, more to herself than anyone else. Spy grumbled a slur and paced away. He kept moving, she noted. He was very angry. Understandable. He was more than pissed. 

“I guess I’d have to find out where on earth he could be hiding,” she finally replied. Spy was standing by the window, looking through the blinds. His lips formed a thin line and he tapped his foot. 

‘I might be able to help you with that,” he said, his tone a bit lighter. She tilted her head. “What?”

He faced her again and beckoned her over. She stood and walked anxiously over to his side and peered out. There, Sniper’s camper was innocently parked, lights still on. “He’ll know,” he stated.

“ _Sniper_?” she said dumbly. Spy took a drag from his cigarette and rolled his eyes. 

“He was _good_ friends with the runaway,” he continued. He looked out distastefully at the campervan. “For a few months now I’ve watched my counterpart slink away to the bushman’s nest and not come out for hours,” 

“Well surely he was just doing his job,” Miss Pauling added. The spy shook his head. “Never killed the sniper, from what I saw,” 

Miss Pauling opened her mouth to find another argument but nothing came out. 

“You are a naive girl,” he hissed, “Adults do not spend so much time together unless they are scheming or humping like rabbits in heat,” he threw another disgusted glare through the blinds at the camper. 

“For months?” she gaped. Spy nodded and walked away from the window. 

“Well- why didn't you bring it up?” she asked. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “I tried to, but it isn't easy to sneak up on a pair in the middle of the battlefield. And I didn't quite expect to be fired this evening,”

They stood in silence. Miss Pauling could tell that Spy was sickened by the thought of his clone spending so much  _ time _ with his teammate, especially for being the arguable, homophobic man he was. But she didn't mind that. She was more concerned with Sniper’s wellbeing. Who knew what the BLU spy would do to getaway. He might kill to get the camper and his man on some money to escape. 

She sat back down and ran a hand through her hair. Spy stood, waiting for something from her. 

“I’ll ask him,” she said with a sigh. 

Spy nodded. “Ok, but you need to do more than that. It's easy for him to lie. Catch him when he least expects it, in the dead of night, unannounced-”

“That's creepy,” she said, without thinking.

Spy looked at her hard. “I am being _serious_. This is serious and he could leave at any moment,” he snapped. 

Miss Pauling waved a hand. “No, he won’t. His locker is still full of his things and he's a lazy man. He’ll sleep, I can ask in the morning,” she said. 

Spy threw his arms out furiously. “ **No**! You can’t! Do it now! This is a serious matter! Did I not say this over and over?”

“Jesus christ why don't you do it?” she cried. 

“The man hates me, almost as much as I hate him! He would _never_ answer me,” he replied dryly. 

They stared at each other in the dark for a long while, before Spy jabbed a gloved finger at her. “Do it,  _ now _ . I have a phone call to make, then I am retiring to my room. You better have found that ' _ tapette'  _ by the morning,” 

And with that, he stormed away, out of the corridor and up to the phones. Miss Pauling was alone. She put her head down onto the table, using her arms as a headrest. She closed her eyes and thought about Scout, and Demo and all of the smiling faces she’d put an end to. Innocent lives brought into the world by a ruthless company and taken out by a frail, shaky girl. A naive girl as Spy had put it. He was a mean man, she thought. Mean and didn't understand. But then again, the man killed for a living without a second thought. He probably enjoyed it. 

She also thought about how fearful Spy was about his clone. Surely he would just want to get away from the base, no longer worried about an innocent clone. Sure, the BLU could, if he tried hard enough, ruin the RED's reputation thanks to his similar looks, be she wondered if it was maybe about his sexual orientation rather than his job. He seemed furious at even the thought of his clone and the sniper spending time together, let alone the actual fact. Miss Pauling puzzled over whether or not they had actually ' _acted as rabbits in heat_ ', or if it was all just one big coincidence, and Sniper was just being blamed. RED seemed to want BLU dead for different reasons than he let on. 

Either way, Miss Pauling fell asleep on the table, forgetting to ask Sniper if he’d seen the BLU spy at all. 


	8. The Bear Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy has an encounter with an old relation that may or may not end in a broken nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some darkish/sexual themes in this chapter.
> 
> this chapter was very 'eh' to write, and it certainly didn't come out how I wanted it to. I promise the next chapter (hopefully posted soon) will explain everything that happened in this scene.

Spy stood a little ways off, watching Sniper talk frantically over his mother.

The couple had, thankfully, gotten away from the base, and stopped temporarily in the town of Teufort pretty early in the morning, before the remaining men had woken up. It was a nice day. The pale sun warmed their backs as they stood on the flat expanse of New Mexico land. In the distance, some small shops huddled together and locals milled around. They parked the camper near to a pay phone so Sniper could call Australia and share the bad news. Spy listened as well as he could, whilst trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. 

...

“I know mum, I know.” 

...

“Yes, I’ve got some money left. I was going to buy a ticket home right now,”

...

“Yes. Yes.  _ Yes, _ I have your jumpers, I'll be warm enough.”

...

“No, but I was going to go food shopping in a sec,” 

...

“I’d reckon maybe a day overseas, but I still need to drive to California,”

...

“Yes mum, California is a state. Yes. No. Ye-  _ Maybe _ .” 

...

“I know, I love you too. But I have a question to ask, it's about Tim. Yeah,  _ that _ Tim.”

Spy felt as though the conversation was getting a bit personal so he walked over to his friend and silently motioned that he was going to do the shopping quickly and would need a bit of money. Sniper nodded and fished a worn, leather wallet from his pocket and passed it over, listening to his mother on the phone rant. “Yeah, I know mum,” he replied.

Spy made his way over to the shops in the distance. He had left his gloves and blazer in the camper, preferring to just be in his shirt and dressy pants. He had a feeling his outfit would get a bit too uncomfortable for the road. Maybe he would have to borrow some clothes. But then he wondered if Sniper’s clothes would even fit him. He stopped thinking about that immediately and shook his head, far too close for comfort. Here he was again, using Sniper like a tool, to get him to safety. He would just have to stay in his dirty suit. That was fine.

It took him a while to find a store with food. For some reason the signs were very hard to read that morning, he passed a hairdresser, shoemaker, gun fixer, bomb creator, florists, and finally, a small little grocers. He held the wallet tight in his hand as he entered and glanced around. 

It was a modest little place, with terribly ugly decorations. The floor was checkered with orange tiles and the walls were a sickening yellow colour. It was lined with shelves full of tins, boxes and packets of food. He’d never seen so much in one place. Sure, he’d come into town before in the 8 years they worked close to Teufort, but he had never needed to venture into the supermarket. It was like a new world to him. 

He slinked around and studied all of the brands carefully. He had a short shopping list in his head, he planned on cooking for the pair’s dinner, Sniper didn't seem like the best at food preparation. He picked up a little metal basket and collected; a bag of pasta, a carton of milk, some tins of tomatoes, cheese, bagged coffee beans for the coffee machine, dish soap, a clove of garlic, a few varying vegetables and fruits. He was careful not to buy anything too expensive and waste Sniper’s money. 

A gaggle of suburban moms stared him down as he walked past, which he didn't mind that much. He supposed they recognized him as one of the cold-blooded mercenaries from Builders League United, who were destroying landmarks and causing havoc next door. He couldn't imagine the grief the teams had caused them over the years. And besides, he probably looked like a serial killer, walking slowly up and down the aisles, picking up and reading everything in sight, dressed in a snappy shirt and cradling a basket full of cheap food.

He peaked at the newspaper stand, glazing over the headlines. Nothing overly interesting. Mostly about new sports events and scandalous things the president says in his sleep. Nothing that will affect Spy in the long run.

He finally finished his prowling and sauntered up to the single, small sales counter. He placed his basket down and allowed the cashier to unpack the items and price them. His attention wandered over to the shelves of cigarettes behind the cashier. He’d never bought ‘durries’ at this store specifically but did recognize some brands, decent to bad. Nothing exceptional. He debated whether Sniper would be angry if he spent his remaining money on some cigarettes. The spy would run out soon and he didn't know if he would last without them. They were the last slice of normality he still had. The last coping mechanism. Probably the only thing keeping him from sobbing in Sniper’s arms again. God that was embarrassing. How could he have been that open, and sensitive without a second thought? It was childish, unprofessional, stupid even. He couldn't let himself be that open again. He couldn't risk it. Maybe he  _ should _ buy those cigs. 

“What’s your name lovely?” 

Spy snapped out of his cigarette daze to turn his focus on the cashier in front of him. 

“Pardon me?” he was taken aback by the man’s confidence.  _ Sweetheart _ ?  _ C'est quoi ce bordel?  _

“That's one interesting accent-” the stranger cooed. He was tall, muscular and accurately tanned thanks to the cruel New Mexico sun. He had a head of dirty brown hair, unevenly cut and a fine scar running down his eyebrow. His lips were curled in a slight smile, with a burly beard. He was relatively younger than the spy looked. 

Spy just stood, staring in confusion. The cashier, in his ugly red uniform, finished pricing the items and leaned on the counter. He pressed the cash register to reveal a price. “I asked you a question,” he said. 

Spy ignored him and pawed Sniper’s wallet for the right amount of money. He didn't want to let on how nervous he was. This could be a BLU footman for all he knew, paid to kill him. Yet despite all of this; the cashier was strangely familiar. Sometimes he found all Americans to look the same, but this man was different. He doubted he would forget a beard that ruffled anyway. He looked like a bear squeezed into a red apron. 

“What's your name?” he repeated. 

_ Jesus Christ _ , “Wouldn't you like to know,” was all Spy said, focusing on picking the most crumpled bills from the purse. The younger man chuckled and kept talking. 

“Look at you, you look so dishevelled Frenchie. Do you need a place to stay tonight?” 

Spy felt disgusted as he placed a few bills on the counter, face stern. “I am perfectly fine where I am, thank you.” 

The man raised an eyebrow and took the money, counting it slowly. “Mm.” 

Spy wanted to strangle the stranger. He was far too forward, even rude. The cashier finished counting and looked up. “You’re three dollars off queenie. If you want, you can come out back and we can sort it out?” he cooed. 

Spy almost gagged. But he composed himself. “Really?” 

“Yes of course,” the man grinned wide.

Spy tutted and placed three more dollars on the counter without a second thought, “I didn't know all American’s were such morons,” He collected his things and grabbed a shopping bag that had been left on the counter. He stormed out of the store, ignoring the remaining customers glaring at him and whispering to each other. The cashier flipped him off and called him terrible names as he left. 

He walked away from the store, his head an angry mess. He paced down a small street passing locals until finally, he found an empty alley. He ushered to hide and put the bag of groceries down. He fumbled with his pocket to pull out a cigarette pack. He growled at his shaky hands whilst he lit his cig swiftly. 

Spy leant against a shady brick wall and blew smoke through nervous puffs. He fiddled with his hair anxiously. He remembered who that man was. He didn't like his past self very much. 

Through the eight years the mercs worked close to Teufort, Spy had journeyed to the town on weekend nights to explore and learn more about people. It sounded foolish recounting it, but back then, it was so exciting. He had met many people when he was out and about, he wasn't nervous or awkward in the dead of night. He had the confidence of a sleek cat, going places and meeting strangers. Although he never partied with them, that wasn't his style. He preferred to just make temporary friends, drink booze and talk. He never let the strangers know much about him. They were just that-  _ strangers _ . Most people didn't mind his secrecy, but when some ventured too far into his personal life, he would simply shut them down. 

Once the sun rose, Spy would wander back to the base alone, and would never see the partiers again. It was just the way it went. Teufort town was weird in that way; it was so small and tight-knit, yet every time you visited, you never saw the same person twice. 

Yet after a few years of never getting a satisfying interaction through the night, drinking or talking, Spy realised maybe he wanted something a little more ‘ _ amorous’ _ . He investigated his sexuality, type and attitude towards intimate relationships. He didn't want anything serious. He couldn't do that. He didn't think he had the guts. Rather, he would spend a single night with a man of his choosing. He would visit several off the record locations for men of his  _ ‘type’,  _ where they could mingle and hook up. Spy cringed at the memory of the person he was, trying to get a grasp of being a real person, trying to forget the fact he was a clone. He wasn't a person. He was a creature. 

He spent the weekend nights with a broad selection of strangers, never meeting the same person again after leaving them on Saturday morning. Apart from him. _The bear-man_. A man who he, frankly, regretted spending any intimate time with as he wasn't very  _ good _ at what he does, and wasn't his type in any way. The guy was huge, burly, and hairy. But Spy had given him a chance and left in the morning.

Spy had stopped visiting _any_ partners almost four years ago. How he could remember the man was strange, and that the man remembered the spy. But remembering his past made him shudder and crush his cigarette against the wall. 

He needed to find the camper and get out of here. He didn't like thinking about anything but the present, and right now, presently, he could see the Bear-man strolling up to him, a grin plastered on his face. 

“Long time no see, Frenchie!” the man greeted, arms wide. It seemed like a bit of a squeeze for him to walk down the alley, but he wasn't bothered. 

Spy turned on his heel and snatched his bag up, trying to escape. He stepped away, speed walking to the alley’s other exit. The bear-man cut him off and grimaced. “The years have not been kind to you have they?” he teased. 

Spy assumed he was right. By the way he felt, he guessed his eyes were hollow and wide with fear and exhaustion, whilst his hair was a grey bird's nest. Either way, Spy was taken aback and wanted to stab the man where he stood. He reached for his knife but ended up scrambling blindly for a weapon he accidentally left in the camper. He deflated and resorted to standing still as the man looked him up and down. He searched his frantic mind for something,  _ anything _ , to say.

“Aren't you supposed to be working?” is all he could stutter out.  _ Oh my god, you fucking idiot. Working? Why would you ask that? Run for god's sake! _ He berated himself at the foolish question, watching helplessly as the man gripped his shoulder. 

“Nah, as soon as you left the store I ran to catch you,” he said, pleased with himself, “I didn't want to lose you again. Now, how's about a treat?”

Spy tilted his head in confusion.  _ What _ ? He jumped in surprise, at the man’s wandering hands. He gasped and pulled away. He looked around and,  _ thank you whatever god is out there _ , he spotted Sniper walk past the alley way’s entrance, leaving a bank. He was wandering along, focusing on his watch, rather than where he was going. Spy called out to him, “ _ Sniper _ ! Hello! Sniper!” waving his free hand and trying to pull away from the bear-man’s lingering hand. 

Sniper jolted alert at the sound of his work name, spinning to look where the sound came from. He found Spy wincing away from a stranger. He stepped towards them. “What's going on?” he asked, dumbfounded. 

Spy slid away from the man whilst he was confused at sniper’s height. He was able to escape to Sniper’s side, clutching the groceries. “This is an old acquaintance of mine,” spy hissed “but we are leaving  _ now _ ,”. Sniper nodded but kept his eyes on the stranger. Spy held his breath, hoping this flow of confidence would last. 

It didn't. The man grabbed Spy’s arm angrily and pulled him tight. “ **No** you aren’t.” he snarled. Spy yelped uselessly, tumbling into the man’s arms. Sniper, in turn, tugged Spy’s other arm on instinct. 

“Let him go!” Sniper yapped, minding not to pull his friend’s arm clean off. Spy tried to scrabble away but the bear-man’s grip was tight.  _ “What the fuck is wrong with you?”  _ Spy snapped. 

The man’s eyes flashed in pure anger and he drew an arm back to punch Sniper square in the nose. The taller man stumbled backwards with a cry, cradling his face. 

Now with Sniper busy, the bear-man gripped Spy and tried to drag him away. Spy kicked the man in his groin and beat him to the floor. The bear wailed and struck him in return, hitting him in the chest, blowing a fair amount of air from his lungs. The bear-man had his arms around the spy once more, and was spitting nonsense into his ear, “I’m not losing you again, Frenchie,” Spy gulped, the bag of food long discarded. 

Sniper rose behind the man from seemingly nowhere with a stray brick in his hand. He bashed it over his head and the huge man crumbled to the floor. Spy was free and clambered away, scooping up the bag.

Sniper, still shielding his nose, dragged Spy by the hand out of the alley and the pair jogged back into town. They didn't stop until they were sitting in the camper’s two front seats and were gassing it out of Teufort for good. 

“ **_What the fuck_ ** ?” Sniper cried finally, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on his sore face. Spy was still breathing heavily, clutching the plastic bag in his arms tight. His shoulders were killing him, in pain but also in burning guilt from where the man gripped him.

“What is going on with you?” Sniper continued, “Every corner I turn you’re getting into trouble?” Spy couldn't reply, just sat gasping. 

Sniper looked at him. “ _ Well _ ?”

“ _ Jesus Christ! _ He was a man I had relations with many-  _ many _ years ago!” Spy shouted, running hands through his hair. He was shaking a bit.

“So? People I know don't try and drag me into skanky alleys when they see me again!” Sniper retorted, furiously flicking the indicators on and roughly turning the camper to the right. 

“I know, he is insane! What can I do about it?” Spy trembled, yelling in his defence. Sniper tutted and groaned. 

“If my nose is broken I swear to god I will flip,” he growled to himself. Spy sunk into his seat and tried to stop himself from sobbing. 


	9. Loon-roo-mat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper and Spy stop off at a Laundromat to get some cleaning done quickly. But Sniper is confronted with some warm-fuzzies and embarrassing idealizations of Spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not my best chapter but I'm tired of looking at it so here it is *loud, dramatic sigh*

Sniper turned the camper into a desolate street and flicked the headlights off. It had gotten dark quick, and the sky was a chill, navy colour. One or two stars twinkled above him, hiding behind a quilt of thin clouds. It was cold in the worst places, and every now and then Sniper had to blow on his fingers to breathe life back into them.

Spy was fast asleep beside him, his head resting against the chilled window. He was quiet, not a sound but his deep, steady breathing. He had fallen asleep a few hours ago. Their silence had coaxed him to rest. He looked incredibly uncomfortable, his arms wrapped around himself, his neck craned. But he was peaceful and he wasn't complaining. That was all that mattered. 

The pair had not spoken since their encounter with the stranger in the street. They had stopped to stretch their legs and make some jam on toast since then but hadn't shared a word. They were just too tired to form words or try and argue with each other.

Sniper tested to touch his aching nose. He still had not checked if it was broken, but it sent terrible jolts of pain down the bridge of his nose any time he moved his face, be it to furrow his eyebrows or simply blink. He was still bubbling with anger. He couldn't tell if it was for the strange man who punched him in the face, or at Spy. He didn't want to be angry at his friend, but he couldn't help it. 

He walked in on a confusing situation. The man was very close to Spy, holding his shoulder tight. Spy had looked unbearably scared. He had said they were old acquaintances. Maybe the man was an enemy of the RED spy and had gotten the two mixed up. Maybe. 

But maybe Spy did know the man. Maybe they were very close. Maybe Spy, being the self reserved and sassy man he was, had ended whatever relations they had, and the man never got over it. Either way, it was confusing. Either way, it made the pit in Sniper’s heart tremor. 

He drove down a tight street with run-down, battered shops of all sizes. He parked neatly beside the curb and silently jumped out of the camper, minding not to wake his friend. 

Sniper walked to the entrance to the back of the camper, stepped inside and turned the light on. It was a bit chilly as he picked up his dirty clothes and gathered Spy’s blazer. He searched his storage cupboards for a nice warm knitted sweater and some trousers. He fished some soap from the cramped bathroom, as well as a few towels. He placed everything in a bag and was outside into the cold again.

He shouldn't be angry at Spy, he told himself. It was a misunderstanding, Spy probably had no idea that the man would get violent. And if Sniper had not come to help, who knew what the stranger would have done to the french man. By the look of his expression when he came to help, it wasn't going to be something good. 

He wandered over to Spy who was still fast asleep against the car door. Sniper knocked on the window politely, stirring him awake. He watched Spy frown in confusion and study their surroundings before opening the door and sliding out.

It was very dark. The air prickled with the cold December wind. It was quiet too, the only sound coming from a bike lock a little ways off that swung with the wind. The camper was parked parallel to some run-down, rickety stores. A bit of light was coming from a yellow, flickering street lamp a few meters away and a store window. 

Spy had to squint to read the store’s name as he couldn’t quite see inside. He sounded out the word silently then shook his head in confusion. ‘C’est quoi ' _ loon-roo-mat _ ?'” 

Sniper couldn't help but smile and he handed Spy the bag of clothes. “It's pronounced ‘ _ laun-drow-mat _ ’,” he corrected, “you wash yer clothes in there, they've got tons of washing machines,”

Spy gave the bag a confused glance, “ah,  _ c'est une laverie automatique _ ,” Sniper guessed they were talking about the same thing and shrugged. 

He guided his friend inside and the door opened with a faint  _ ding _ of a bell. Just like the dilapidated storefront outside, the inside wasn't much better. It had ugly green wallpaper, clashing with the harsh red carpet. The room was packed and stacked with washing machines, yet only one was on and rumbling. A sleeping man sat on a small folded chair in the corner, stinking of booze.  _ ‘ _

_ Comfortable’ _ , to say the least. 

Sniper turned to Spy, took the bag from him, and rummaged around in it. He found a jumper, trousers, shampoo, towels and presented them to his teammate. “Here are some clean clothes,” he announced, then pointed to a closed-door across the room, “and there is a shower in there,” 

Spy took the items and smiled. “Thank you.” He slinked away and peeked wearily inside the shower-room. It was, surprisingly, scrubbed and polished clean. Deciding it was good enough, he stepped inside and locked the door. 

The man napping in the corner barely stirred, just kept snoring and mumbling. 

Sniper busied himself filling a washing machine with his clothes, fiddling with coins to fit into the pay slot. After a while of messing around, he pulled Spy’s blazer out of the bag. 

He frowned. It looked expensive. Maybe he should ask how to wash it properly. He would hate to find a shrunken version of the coat after being careless. How on earth would he explain that? 

Sniper placed the blazer on the machine’s top and continued stuffing his worn down, hand-made, dirty clothes away and poured a bit of soap into the contraption. He flicked it on and watched it hum to life, beginning to rock methodically. He stretched his arms above his head and groaned. It had been a long day and his bloody nose was killing him. 

Sniper stepped back and picked up Spy’s blazer again. 

He noted, even when it came to their outfits, he and Spy were so different. Blue and Red. Suit and vest. Spy preferred to wear the same thing, keep it simple, keep it classy. He wore an expensive, probably configuring suit every day. Sniper wondered how uncomfortable it was to run around in the New Mexico heat day after day, fighting and getting dirty in a shirt and tie. He, personally, had only worn a suit a couple of times in his life, and to say the least, he hadn't enjoyed it. 

But then he also wondered if it was uniform for the spies. Sniper had received a uniform shirt and was too lazy to wear anything else. Or maybe RED Spy chose to wear such a fancy get-up, while BLU Spy was left in his shadow- forced to wear the same. That was probably it. It seemed to be the story with everything when it came to the pair. 

Sniper frowned again and traced the pockets of the blazer. The coat was heavy in his hands. Sure- the material was weighty but there felt like there was a bit more in here. Like the nosey bugger he was, he explored the pockets, finding secret holes and pouches, which hid his knife, cigarettes and leather gloves. 

Sniper couldn't help but notice how dainty and neat his friend was. Everything was so orderly. His cigarettes, once checked, were packed together on one side of the pack, in a straight line. Maybe a nervous habit? OCD? Accident? Sniper tutted at the gloves too, which were folded tight together. 

Well now that he thought about it, even the man’s face was perfectly even. His eyebrows were clean and trimmed, his stubble was always taken care of. His teeth were pearly white and shaped faultless. His hair was messy in that tidy way. It was all over the place, but purposely that way. Short where it should be, long where it looks best, and the black curls were-

Sniper blinked and was brought out of his daze. _What the fuck was he doing_. He put the blazer back into the bag and stepped away. His hands felt hot and evil from the material. He felt terrible for prying and snooping. He never knew these feelings existed before. Why suddenly did he start to have an itchy, burning feeling travelling up his fingers to the man he shared a van with? He gave the blazer a look. Could an inanimate object really stir this much emotion from him. Or maybe he had always had this.... ' _attitude'_ towards Spy and only now realised how serious it was. 

He wanted to know more about Spy. On a more personal level. He was so interesting and different. So clean and perfectly shaped. He guessed that was the way the spy was _tailored_ , designed to kill and do damage, to get _into_ tight spaces and _out_ of tricky situations, to be the centre of attention but sink into a crowd in the blink of an eye. His hands were matchless, perfect for picking locks, throttling enemies, fingers wrapped around a blade. 

His personality was a tricky blade to, switching from snappy and short-tempered, to kind and sincere. He was genuine. He was talented too. He carried a lot with him and was able to juggle it pleasantly into a smooth, hard exterior, that was difficult to get into, but rewarding when you got to know the man. 

Sniper shook his head but he couldn't escape the thoughts of Spy. 

His perky smile, be it a big genuine grin or a defeated smirk. It brightened the room as well as his smokey grey eyes. It brightened his whole facade. His cheeks flushed, his teeth shone and his eyes scrunched together cutely, distracting Sniper from his terribly loud laugh. Spy snorted and cackled, and despite how rough it was to listen to, it made the Australian's heart melt like butter. 

The way the man carried himself, too, was inspiring, walking with purpose, even when stoney tired or drunk. 

_ Drunk _ . 

God, that reminded him of last night. 

When Spy was drinking he was such a different person. He still had that stellar flare, but it was a lot more floaty and giggly. It was strange, seeing such a reserved and well-kept man pool onto Sniper’s lap and laugh about nothing in particular.  He wasn't very good at keeping his hands to himself, spending most of the night with his arms around Sniper’s forearm. 

Secretly, Sniper didn't mind, and liked the touch, but was wary about how much his guest drank. Every sip seemed to loosen him up, sending him spiralling into dazed statements and confusing words. Half the things coming out of his mouth were scrambled declarations. Declarations of _what_ , Sniper had no idea, he was pretty sure half of it was in French or Russian, but he nodded along anyway, entertaining the idea that Spy was actually saying something important. 

“I like your eyes  _ Snipe-rrrrrrrrrrrr _ ,” the spy had stated suddenly, resting his head on the taller man’s shoulder. At the time, they were sitting on the camper’s tiny sofa, so there wasn't a lot of space. 

“Mm?” Sniper tolerated, presuming Spy had no idea what he was on about. But Spy nodded and sat up properly. 

“Yes! They are  _ so _ blue. But a _nice_ ice blue, not blue like the… _what_..what do you call the water on the beach?” he asked, making wavy motions with his hands.

Sniper took the beer bottle away from Spy and placed it on the table, “ _The ocean_ , mate,” he replied.

“Yes! But _no_! They are not like the ocean, they are like the vast Antarctica!” Spy seemed to find the word Antarctica insanely hilarious and had to excuse himself to laugh it out.

Sniper decided it was about time to tuck his friend away for the night, so he helped the giggling schoolgirl to his feet and led him to the camper’s bed. He helped him shed his shoes, blazer, and tie, before pulling the sheets back and half helping- half lifting him up. Spy practically collapsed and as soon as his head hit the pillow he passed out, deep asleep. Sniper tucked him in carefully. He stood and watched over him for a bit, watching his steady breathing.   
He felt like a stalker, watching his friend sleep, but he had to make sure he was ok. Right? 

Either way, watching Spy's chest rise and fall in an unshaken manner, up and down, slowly and peacefully, was so calming. His black curls spread across the pillow, so perfect that they looked staged. His face sank into the bed and his cheek was smushed. He was so cute and small. Sniper had almost reached over to brush some hair from his forehead-

The shower room down creaked open and Sniper snapped to attention. He watched a rather wet looking Spy emerge dressed in a terribly oversized knitted jumper and a pair of trousers that weren't his own. He mimicked walking on a catwalk up to his friend, posing every now and then to show how much the outfit didn't fit. The sleeves were far too long, the pant cuffs dragged and the collar dipped quite low ( _only to show an undershirt and no skin to Sniper’s dismay)._

Sniper just laughed and cheered as he walked on. He tried to keep his touchy thoughts out of his mind, especially seems the person he was thinking so tenderly of was by his side, tilting his head in confusion. “Are you feeling ok Sniper? Your face is awfully red.” Spy’s eyebrows pointed upward in concern.

_ Jesus Christ. _

“Oh.. er.. Yeah, it's just a bit warm in here..” Sniper lied, standing very rigid, “How was your shower?” 

_How was your shower? How was he supposed to reply?_ ‘Oh y’know, wet.’ He needed to get a hold of himself. He decided to occupy himself by taking the dirty suit from the smaller man and putting it in one of the empty machines. 

“It was fine, better than I expected. It took some time for the water to heat up,” Spy said innocently, stepping in front of Sniper to take the shirt and pants and separate them. He seemed to know what to do with expensive clothes so the Australian let him do his own thing. 

He watched Spy lean over the machine and empty his blazer pockets, before inspecting the wash soap and shrugging. 

Sniper took in how well Spy wore the outfit. His body forced curves into the shapeless sweater, and he had rolled the sleeves in a stylish manner. He was frustrated by how many layers there were on his body, keeping Sniper from seeing him completely. He had to look away as his friend bent over to close the machine door.

Finally, Spy stood properly and brushed his hands on his pants. “Are you _sure_ you’re feeling ok Sniper?” he asked. 

“Nah-its just… I can't believe you're wearing my clothes,” Sniper tried to chuckle good-naturally but it sounded like a squawk. 

Spy raised an eyebrow, “ _Yes_ , you let me borrow them did you not?” 

Sniper nodded and sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Yes, I did. _Sorry_. I’m going to have a shower, where are the towels?” 

Spy pointed at the shopping bag on the floor, where he had left the dry towels. He then pushed himself up onto one of the unused machines and sat comfortably watching his counterpart stumble to the bag.  “Oh actually can you pass me a spare cloth, I must dry my hair,”

Sniper handed him a towel, Spy took it gratefully. He didn't dry his hair though, instead, he just stared at Sniper’s face. He frowned.

“ _What_? What are you looking at?” 

Spy motioned for him to come closer. Sniper took a cautious step forward. Now they were very close, Spy’s legs brushed against the taller man’s abdomen with every breath. 

Sniper barely noticed, he was focusing more on Spy’s hands- which were outstretching to cup the taller man’s face. Sniper wanted to pull away but he couldn't. He stayed still. He didn't breathe.

Spy tilted his head, furrowed his eyebrows and ran a vigilant finger down Sniper’s nose, feeling for any bumps. Sniper hissed in pain, but, still, didn't move. He couldn't drag his eyes away from Spy’s face. His grey eyes were studying the nose like it was a book. 

“ _Jesus_ , what are you doing, counting freckles?” Sniper humoured, putting his hands on the machine Spy sat on for balance. His hands were on both sides, very close to the french man’s hips. If he just moved his finger a bit he could hook his fingers around his belt loops. He curled his hands into fists to stop them from making any movements he would regret. 

Spy tittered and flicked the bridge of his nose playfully which made Sniper jump back a few steps and hold his face, “I was just checking if we have to take you to a hospital or not,” he laughed and finally started to dry his hair, rubbing the towel on his head. 

“So I'm all good?” Sniper felt colder now that he wasn't close to Spy, and missed the touch of his hands. _Poetic_. 

“It's not broken,” Spy replied from behind the towel, “it might get a bit swollen,” 

“ _ Amazing _ , anything else?” 

Spy dropped the towel from his face and shook his head to loosen the damp curls a bit. Sniper felt his knees wobble. Spy shrugged and pointed at his lips, “No kissing girls, that might knock it out of shape,” he joked, “and sleep with your head _higher_ than your heart,” 

“ _ W-why _ ?” 

“Incase of nosebleeds,” Spy said simply, put the towel down and stretched, “Now- are you going to shower or are you going to stand there forever?” 

Sniper just huffed and turned away into the shower room, locking the door behind him. 

He stood still for a few seconds.  _ Ok- that was weird. Was that not weird? _ Spy had no problem holding his head, their faces so close, Sniper’s hands on the verge of cradling his hips. And the shorter man didn't even notice. Sniper, on the other hand, could barely stand straight,  _ literally _ . 

Sniper looked around the empty shower room for a distraction. It was pretty bland. Beige tiles, a dirty looking shower cubicle, spiders living in the corner of the ceiling, and a broken mirror. 

He shed his jumper and undershirt before kicking off his pants and investigating the shower situation. Sniper had a thing for public bathrooms; he hated them. It was a pet peeve you could say. They were just so unnecessarily gross, and that's rich coming from the guy whose hobby was to camp in the great outdoors without a toilet. But he’d been sharing a shower with eight other men for years now, and sincerely, he just wanted a nice bath. He laughed internally at how spoilt he was acting. _Oh well._

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Like Spy warned, it took a while to heat up, but Sniper had no energy to stand and wait. He let the cold water wash over him and his sore shoulders. He guessed his shoulders ached thanks to slamming a brick over the violent stranger’s head. Now that he stood and thought, he started to wonder if he’d killed the man. _Should he care?_ Should he worry? Would people be after the pair, as fugitives and murderers? 

Sniper was beginning to get a bit too cold. Why wouldn't this water get warmer? 

\---

After a terribly cold shower, Sniper hastily got dressed and checked himself in the shattered mirror. He felt clean enough and had even attempted to dry his hair. The only issue now was the urgent need to shave. It has been only two or three days since his last trim yet already his chin was growing prickly stubble. He’d have to take a look tomorrow morning when it was brighter. 

Spy was always clean-shaven, he thought. Always clean and fresh-faced. _Well- Not always._ The past couple of days had proven otherwise. Sniper has seen a rougher and less kempt version of the french man, who didn't put any product in his hair and wore the same shirt for a second day. Impressive by his standards. Sniper liked this. He saw Spy as a more genuine person. Not just a well-dressed pin-up boy in snazzy shoes. 

He collected his belongings and headed back into the main room, opening the door with his hip. The harsh light from the laundromat lobby took a few blinks to get used to.

Spy was sitting on a chair in the corner opposite the sleeping man. He looked bored, attempting to read a magazine with a lady in a blood-stained wedding dress on the front. A bold pink headline read something along the lines of  _ “scandal- affairs- murder _ ?  _ All in this issue of PINK _ ” Spy seemed to be very into it and tapped his foot in frustration. 

Sniper made his way over and sat clumsily beside him, once again fiddling with the bag, disposing of the towels. “What’re you reading?” he asked. 

Spy looked up from the pink magazine and shrugged. “I don't really know,” he turned it over so he could see the cover, “the title looked interesting, but it's a bit boring,” He opened it properly again and pointed vaguely to the page, where a young man was printed. “This man has cheated on his actress wife, so  _ she _ went and had an affair with one of the princes of England,” he explained. 

Sniper scoffed, “ _ That's _ too boring for you?” 

Spy smirked and turned the page. “Mm, I'm more of a  _ ‘he-cheated-on-her-so-she-murdered-his-lover-in-a-blind-rage-then-took-him-out-with-a-chainsaw,’ _ sort of scandal story,” he said with inverted commas. 

Sniper laughed and ran a hand through his russet hair, “Of course, I wouldn't expect anything less,” Spy made a _pfft_ sound and pushed his friend’s arm gently, in a sort of harmless ‘oh-you’ manner. Sniper secretly cherished the few seconds that his fingers grazed his shoulder. 

Spy gestured to a picture of a new character on the page, a scary-looking blond lady with a huge, poofy head of hair, a tell-tale sign of the 70s. “She's an interesting lady though,” 

Sniper raised an eyebrow and scooted closer to get a better look at her. “Yeh?” She was terrifying. Her eyebrows bent sharply downwards into a scowl, her lips tight and chapped. He guessed she was mostly made of plastic implants and make-up. How anyone could find such a scary looking lady attractive was beyond him. But maybe that was the boy-kissing side of him talking. 

Spy nodded, “She pushed her sister off a cliff as they were interested in the same man,” he made a shoving motion. 

“I think you need to find a new hobby mate, you seem far too interested in _love-obsessed nut jobs_ ,” Sniper playfully jeered and leaned back in his chair. 

Spy smiled at first but then frowned. A deep, worried frown. He closed the magazine and folded it, in his neat manner. He crossed his legs and bit the inside of his cheek. “Sniper, I wanted to apologize for that,” 

Sniper sat up and squinted slightly. “For what?” he said dumbly.

“For the man in the street,” Spy replied. Sniper sat still for thirty full seconds not knowing what on earth he was talking about, before gasping, “OH  _ HIM _ ,” 

Spy blinked.

Sniper flushed and waved his hand. The 'stranger' has left his mind for a while. He was too busy watching Spy speak about deranged people, he’d forgotten they’d encountered their own. He opened his mouth to speak but Spy held up a polite hand. 

“It was my fault it got so out of control. I didn't protect myself and let him get violent,” Spy’s hand wavered slightly. “I should have fought up for myself and not stood still like a target,” 

He tried to continue but it was Sniper’s turn to raise a hand, “It's _alright_ , I understand,” he started. Spy made a face. Sniper smiled kindly. “There's a bunch of looneys in the world, and _unfortunately_ , you're going to meet a lot of them now that you're in the real world,” 

“I understand how you froze and didn't know what to do. When I was a kid, a guy mugged me and stole what little cash I had, as well as my gramp’s watch. It was an heirloom, passed down through the family. It was stunning, with a leather strap. My dad had _finally_ trusted it with me. I froze when this guy jumped me. He beat me up pretty bad. I knew how to fight and could have taken him on if I tried. But I didn't, and I haven't forgiven myself since. I don't think my dad has either.” 

“My point is, it's  _ ok _ to freeze. It's natural- it's scary. The most important thing is that you get out safe and you learn for when you meet the next nut-job. Ok?” Sniper grinned again for reassurance. Spy nodded and sighed with a smile. 

“ _Ok_. Thank you. And I'm sorry you got punched,”

“Ah, it's ok. Woke me up a bit, got the adrenaline flowing. Did you get hit?” 

“Mm yes, a nice elbow to the chest. But I'm fine,” 

“I'm sorry for getting so angry at you,” Sniper said a bit more softly. Spy’s teeth twinkled in his smile and he reached out to bat his hand away. Maybe it was that the French were a bit more affectionate and touchy, but Sniper liked how his friend found so many excuses to touch him. “It's ok, you had good reason,” 

Before they could say anything else, their occupied washing machines dinged in unison. “That was quick.” 

The pair sorted through the washing together, Sniper dumped it into a basket, while Spy picked it out and folded it neatly. They chatted like nothing happened, forgetting the fight, and Sniper forgetting about his warm-fuzzies for the shorter man. It seemed that talking distracted him from these new feelings. That was good. Means he could focus. 

“I had no idea these things could dry clothes now,” Spy marvelled, folding some of Sniper’s mismatched socks. Sniper nodded and closed the machine’s front with his foot. “Yep, they wash, dry and do pretty much all of the work for you. The ones at the base were just shit.” 

Spy chuckled, putting the socks away. “Yes, everything back there was terrible. My bed only had three legs.” He moved onto folding a rusty-red sweater. “I do it miss it though,” 

“It was home for you I guess,” Sniper replied. In reality, he missed it too. He missed the mess hall where he could fool around with his team or the barracks where he could relax with his gun. Maybe not the respawn room. No, that place smelt like metal and sweat and just made him think about the awful feeling of respawn. 

Sniper brushed his hands together and sighed as Spy finished organizing the clothes. They smiled at each other and collected their belongings. “What's next?” he asked.

Spy grinned and waved to the door, “I could make us some dinner. I’m starving.”

“What are you planning on cooking up for us?” Sniper asked, following the smaller man outside, giving the sleeping man in the corner a final look. Spy opened the camper door and stepped inside. He offered Sniper a hand, which he took. 

“I bought some ingredients for a pasta dish.” 

“I could _KILL_ for some pasta,” 

“Well come help me chop some onions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy late Halloween!


	10. I want to get away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy and Sniper finish cooking dinner and have a little support session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea what i was doing while making this chapter but its a shorty. ive been binging a butt-ton of romance movies, which is filling me with loads of ideas. a short chapter with a bit of foreshadowing!

“I didn't know you cook,” Sniper said, rubbing his irritated eyes. He had just finished the gruelling task of chopping a few onions and had tried his best not to cry his eyes out. Spy found it very entertaining.

A pasta dish wasn't exactly hard to make, but it took a bit of effort to make it decent, especially when trying to impress a friend. Watching Spy float around, collecting ingredients, knowing precisely what to put where was  _ impressive _ . He was a bit bogged down by how small the camper’s kitchen was, but was making the most of a bad situation; the bad situation being in a tiny kitchenette and having a big doofus as a sous chef.

He had everything set out in front of him, a pot of boiling water, a pan, Sniper’s poorly cut vegetables on a chopping board, some everyday seasonings and a bag of uncooked pasta. He had rolled up his sleeves up to his elbows and had even found a battered old apron in one of the cupboards. It had a faded ‘ _Shrimps on the barbie_ ’ written across the chest, now ‘ _ himps o he arbie _ ’, which Sniper cackled about for a while. Spy had retaliated by pointing out "It doesn't even make any sense! and I don't want to get any food on your clothes _so stop laughing!_ "

“Yes, i can cook well,” Spy replied, studying the salt shaker in his hand. He guessed 6-year-old salt wouldn’t kill them and put a little into a boiling pot on the stove. 

He brushed the cut vegetables into a pan and stirred them around for a while, before breaking out the tinned tomatoes and pouring them in. Watching him cook was like watching surgery. For him, everything had to be done step by step, in order and neat. Every time he finished with a bowl or spoon, he gave it to Sniper to clean in the sink. 

Although it was very intricate, it was also like a dance. It was obvious cooking made him happy, the one thing he had control over, and something he was able to enjoy. He chatted eagerly with his friend and every now and then taught him a thing or two; like where to position food on a pan, what seasoning is best, and which country each seasoning came from. 

Sniper watched him do his own thing, surprised by how much the french man knew. On the base, they didn't cook like this. It was mostly packaged, quickly heated food. Not very nice, but it had as many calories and nutrition as they needed. Only on special occasions did the mercs cook each other meals, and even then they weren't anything special. He remembered Engie buying some steaks and they had a barbecue outside thanks to Pyro’s flamethrower. Or when Medic made the group cakes for birthdays. Heavy knew how to brew a mean stew, and even Scout had made a few pizzas in his time. But either way, none of them put as much effort in as Spy did this pasta dish.

The smell wafting from the pan was amazing. All of the ingredients mixed as one, making an incredible aroma. Sniper could pinpoint the carrots, tomatoes and onions overall, watching the vegetables sizzle. He reached over and attempted to try a bit of the food. Spy slapped his hand away with a spoon and gave him a look.

“Not until it's done,” he snapped, then softened his tone, “it would burn you anyway,” 

Sniper chuckled and leaned on the counter. He picked at his nails and asked, “Did you cook a lot in your base?”

Spy frowned while stirring the vegetable mix, “Sometimes. Nothing nice. Just packaged food we received in the storage boxes.” He brushed his hair back. 

Sniper nodded. “You seem to know what you're doing,” he wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. 

Spy smiled. “It's hard to explain but-” he paused to think, “ok  _ do not _ call me crazy for saying this but, I haven't cooked a lot yet I know how to. I just  _ know _ . I know how to prepare meat, how to cook difficult animals like lobster and what meals from all over the world taste like. It's normal being a clone, to know traits of my  _ counterpart _ although I've never done nor experienced them. Like-  _ memories _ . I know how to tie my shoelaces, how to drive a car, what it feels like to be waterboarded,” he drew pictures with the wooden spoon in the air as he spoke. “So I know how to prepare food even if I have never done it before,” He spoke very calmly.

Sniper pushed himself up off the counter, “Wait, I don't understand. You have memories? From when?” 

Spy turned back to the pan and poked around. “From the other spy.” He opened the bag of pasta and poured it into the pot. “It sort of feels like waking up from sleep and remembering some information from your dream but not perfectly. So he obviously has a passion for cooking, as do I as a result.” He paused again, then smiled at Sniper’s expression. “What? Do I sound mad?”

Sniper laughed airly and shrugged. “A little bit. You know everything that the other spy knows?”

Spy shook his head. “Only  _ some things _ . Like a stamp, the stamp mold has all of the details and decoration, and when you cover it in ink and stamp it, it comes out  _ almost _ perfect on paper. But there are some details missing and it gets a bit smudged. RED spy is the stamp, I'm the print.  _ Right _ ?”

“ _ Right _ .” 

“Right.”

They stood in silence for a bit while Spy watched the food. Sniper opened his mouth to ask another question making Spy signed dramatically at the ceiling. Sniper tittered and rolled his eyes, “I'm sorry, it's just weird-”

  
“ _ Weird _ ?!” Spy gasped, hitting his taller companion's shoulder. 

“Yes! It's weird!” 

Spy tutted and motioned for Sniper to get some cutlery and bowls out. As he looked through the cupboards, he thought of a new question “Is it scary? Having memories but they're not really yours?” 

He passed two bowls to Spy, who took them gratefully. “Yes, sometimes.”

Sniper waited patiently, knowing he was going to say more. 

“I don’t like to think about it. I was usually too busy focusing on work to worry about it. Or else I would drown it out with  _ other _ things- if you get my meaning. I never stay still for too long because that leaves too much silence to think. I don't like thinking. But now that we have no job, it's been digging at my head. That is why I drank a lot last night and made a fool of myself.” 

He served the bowls with a hearty amount of food, minding not to spill any. 

“Some nights I cannot sleep because my head is full of terrible things the other spy has done. The people he has hurt, tricked and killed. He’s lived a dangerous life. I feel tremendous amounts of guilt. Sometimes I wonder if-” his voice wavered, 

“-If I shouldn't be alive. It's so unnatural. Unnatural to be a clone made in a lab. Unnatural to have to share these thoughts and memories. Unnatural to be a carbon copy of someone else. And such a  _ monster _ at that. And I am a tiny fraction, a replica of that monster. I am  _ him _ .”

“And to think, I'm supposed to act just like him, but I'm  _ not _ . He's a killer, without a morsel of remorse. I can't even kill a  _ mouse _ without feeling guilty. I was made-  _ my purpose _ \- is to kill, and I can't even do that. My point,  _ my existence _ , is for nothing. Especially now that we lost our job. My life is over and that scares me the most.” Spy looked like he’d just woken up from sleep and shook his head. “Sorry, I didn't mean to dump all of that nonsense onto you-”

Sniper outstretched a hand and shook his friend’s shoulder. He looked so tired. Sniper had never thought about anything Spy seemed to stay up day after day worrying about. “Just because you're him doesn't mean he's  _ you _ . You’re too different people, you have a will for real life, and to be a good person, despite our not so great job. But that's over, turn a new leaf. _Ok_?” 

Spy smiled wearily and sighed. “I guess so. Thank you. ” He put the bowls full of warm food onto the counter and leaned on it for support, “It's just hard.” 

“Mate, I can't even begin to imagine. But I want to help you.” Sniper rubbed comforting circular motions on his back, “Anytime you feel like shit, please tell me and we can take your mind off it.” 

Spy turned on his heel, facing Sniper and without hesitation, draped his arms across the taller man’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He hid his face in his friend’s collar. 

Sniper didn't flinch, rather, he held Spy close, hands on his hips. He was warm and the perfect height to rest his chin on his curly hair. They stood still, embracing each other. Sniper could feel Spy’s breath waiver.

His words were muffled by cloth when he asked, “Do you have any thoughts that scare you?” 

Sniper smiled sympathetically, his heart swelling at the quiet and defeated sound of Spy’s voice. 

“Yes. I know I might come off as a chill idiot but I have crap thoughts too,” he replied, “I am really scared that I’ll lose my family. I haven’t seen them in so long, they mightn't be the same. They might not let me back in. Or there could be an accident when I'm not there. An enemy of mine could break in while they’re asleep and shoot them in the head to get back at me.” 

Spy gripped Sniper’s sweater in his fists and nodded into his collar. “That is frightening,” 

Sniper made a sound of agreement. “But when I think about those things, I go outside and speak with people close to me. Have a cigarette, a beer and a laugh. Makes me forget about the rough stuff.” 

The french man’s arms were heavy on Sniper’s shoulders, but in a good, intimate way. On a normal occasion, Sniper would be a stuttering mess with Spy’s wrapped around him, his hands on his hips, resting against each other. But thanks to the sombre situation, he held himself together. 

Finally, Spy sighed and turned his head so he was no longer pressed against Sniper’s chest, but still held him tight. “Oh, what are you to do with me. The second night in a row where you have to comfort me and my terrible woes,” 

Sniper laughed wearily. “That's a very poetic way of putting it,” He adjusted his hold on Spy’s waist, suddenly realising how close they were. He was surrounded by the smell of him, cigarettes and the general, natural scent. It was hard to explain, but it was clean and real and warm. He could pick up the soap he had let him borrow half an hour or so ago. 

Spy furrowed his eyebrows and slid his hands down a bit, so instead draping off Sniper’s shoulders, they rested on his chest. “Actually- we haven’t spoken properly about what we’re doing?” 

Sniper’s heart skipped a beat.

“W-what?” 

“What is the plan? Where are we even driving to?” 

Sniper let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding in. He thought Spy was questioning their current ‘ _sitch_ ’, arms wrapped around each other. He didn't want it to end, he wanted to hold on forever. 

“It's up to you,” Sniper said, laying his cheek against Spy’s head, his hair obscuring his view. 

“ _ I want to get away, _ ” Spy said quietly. 

Sniper hummed and thought for a moment. “I’m guessing you don’t know anyone outside of work,” 

Spy shook his head gently. 

“I have a mate. Well- sort of. He's a cousin, but the family pretty much kicked him out after he pulled a few stunts on us when I was a teenager. His name is Tim. He’s living in California, a two days drive from where we are now,” Sniper was drumming his fingers methodically against Spy’s hip as he spoke.

“He has a ranch. It sounds dodgy, but he houses his friends up there. Helps them get on the right track if you catch my drift. Gives them a place to stay, helps them get jobs. I stayed with him for a bit before I got my job with you,” 

“ _Anyway_ , anyway- I was going to give him a call, see if he make find a room for you,” 

Spy’s silence worried him. He blabbered on.

“It's a wonderful area, in the countryside. It's a big farm, fields and fields, and the people there are lovely despite their not so great background, like us. If it's not ok I can try to find you somewhere in Nevada or Oregon, just in case you- or er- the other spy has a background in Califo-”

Spy almost sobbed into Sniper’s collar. Sniper shut up and tightened his grip on the shorter man. 

“You’re too nice Sniper,” Spy laughed, his voice frail. Sniper smiled. 

Spy unfolded himself from the Australian’s arms and held him out at arms reach by the shoulders. “You’re being serious about this Tim’s farm?” he asked. His eyes were a bit red and his hair a dishevelled mess thanks to Sniper’s cheek.

Sniper nodded. Spy beamed, looking incredibly relieved. 

“ _ Mercy baise! _ Amazing! That would be absolutely perfect! Goodness, how can I repay you?” He was near hysterical with happiness. 

“No need,” Sniper chuckled and awkwardly let go of Spy’s waist. He missed his warmth but was so pleased he was happy. 

“Now let's eat before it gets cold and then we can have a victory cigarette,” 


	11. Frustrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the RED spy does some investigating, Miss Pauling is mortified

Spy gave the man a final look before kicking him behind a large trash bin. He was good-looking with blonde hair and blue eyes- enough to work with.

He had even put up a decent fight when Spy had grabbed him and threw him into a headlock. He now supported a busted lip and a sore arm. To his dismay, he had torn the cuff of his red suit. 

But the stranger was knocked out on the ground and Spy was able to steal a disguise, replicating his face easily. Disguising oneself was an invigorating feeling, a refreshing wave of possibilities washing over your body. Use it for nefarious ways or your own needs, it was up to you. Spy loved that. 

He brushed himself off, stretched his arms above his head, and walked off, deciding who to interrogate first. 

Teufort town wasn’t busy, especially for a Saturday. A few crowds of people milled around, too self-absorbed in their chores to notice Spy walking around as a different person. The man was a bit taller than Spy, which took a few steps to get used to. 

The sun was weak against his back and the sky was clear. But he wasn't focusing on the sublime weather, rather on the dishevelled looking man arguing with a police officer. The dishevelled man was six foot or so, with a trimmed beard, he was well-built and had a fine black eye forming. The officer looked bored. 

Spy decided to listen in, as inconspicuous as possible; he stood a little ways off and knelt down to tie his shoelace. 

“There's nothing else you can do?” the beaten-up man asked. The police officer frowned and checked his watch. 

“I'm sorry Trev, but we have little to go off,” he replied. The officer was a bit short, and his navy uniform was on the larger size, it did not fit him well. 

‘Trev’ made a sound of disgust and disappointment, “Little to go off?” he spat, “How hard can it be to find an eight-foot Australian bloke and a fucking french old guy in a suit?”

Spy nearly fell over. He pushed himself to his feet and wandered a little closer, studying a menu for a local cafe, whilst listening in a bit closer. 

“Look man, we’re still looking around and have asked people to bring up information if they know anything,” the officer shrugged, “I'm keeping my eyes out,”

Trev sighed and brushed the policeman away, “yeah  _ whatever _ , I’m wasting my time talking to you,” 

The pair parted and Trev pulled out a cigarette, before sitting on a concrete bench nearby. Spy took his chance and approached the stranger. 

“May I use your lighter? I lost mine,” Spy asked, pleased by the American twang coming from the lips of the man he was disguised as. Sometimes having a foreign accent was taxing when undercover and he was thankful his disguise could cover it.

Trev looked up, confusion plastered on his beaten face before he shrugged and offered his lighter. Spy thanked him and lit his own cigarette. They stood in silence before Spy dared to ask; “What happened to you? Get in a fight with your gal?” he put a bit of playful humour in his voice. 

“ _ Humph _ ,” went the stranger, “I wish. Got beaten up in an alleyway by some foreign freaks,” 

Spy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He got the feeling Trev liked to talk. 

“Yeah! I was minding my own business when I was cornered in the dark and punched and kicked and beaten over the head with a brick!” Trev made childish mashing and kicking motions while he explained. He  _ did _ like to talk. 

Spy painted an expression of shock and awe on his face. “Wow! Are you ok? Being hit with a brick is very dangerous!” He was stroking the man’s ego carefully, only willing to extract the information he needed, nothing more. 

Trev’s chest swelled with pride and confidence, “Yes, I'm fine. Look, it left a mighty bump,” he tilted his head downwards to show a little area where his hair parted and there was a red gash. Enough to knock him out, not much more. 

Spy hummed in astonishment and clapped a hand in front of his mouth. Truly-  _ it wasn't at all impressive.  _ Spy had spent the past eight years running around battlefields where death was disregarded. He had had his arms blown off, head smashed in, teeth punched out, and even more. Let alone the years of torture he had given and received working as a spy. 

If Sniper and Spy wanted to hurt this man, they would have done worse. They were probably robbing him and needed him out of the way. 

“Yep. And if I find where those creeps slinked off to, I'll wring their necks out.” Trev added. Spy, surprisingly, didn't doubt this. Trev seemed to be confident in himself, and he was quite well built. 

“Do you have any idea where they could’ve gone?” 

“Maybe. I’ve got some theories. Saw them arrive in a camper see,” he said. 

Spy blinked. “Yes?” 

“What?” 

“Well, what theory do you have? They were in camper yes- what else?”

“Oh, I dunno,” 

Spy almost groaned in frustration but he held himself back. He was so tired of dealing with idiots constantly. 

“Anyway, enough about that- I haven't seen you around here often, what's your name sweetheart?” Trev practically purred around his cigarette. 

Spy did a double-take. Was he flirting? Suddenly he felt like slamming a brick over this man’s head and all of the pieces clicked into place. 

By the sounds of it, he was getting too comfortable with the BLU spy and the blue retaliated, as he rightfully should, RED spy noted. 

Spy watched Miss Pauling drive past on her purple moped. He immediately lost interest in Trev beside him. He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his foot. He walked away from Trev without a second thought, ignoring his calls of confusion. 

Spy jogged down the street, following the purple blur, before watching her dismount and take her helmet off. She shook her dress back down past her knees and fiddled with her hair, pushing it back into a tight bun. 

Spy shed his disguise effortlessly and strolled up to her.

“Felicity,” he greeted. 

Miss Pauling jumped in surprise. “Oh!” she acknowledged. She gave a nervous wave, placing her helmet onto her Vespa. She didn't look as tired as the night before.

“Did you bring what I asked for?” he asked, getting to the point. Miss Pauling stood for a moment before slowly bestowing a file from her purse. She didn’t look pleased, holding the weighty paper in her frail hands. 

“I had to steal this. I was supposed to burn it this morning,” she said, handing it over. She didn’t let go right away, holding on to the corner tight. “I don't want you to hurt them,” she whispered.

Spy frowned. He pulled the file from her and flipped it open. Inside, he was presented with as much information about Sniper that could possibly be dug up; age, past jobs, addresses, family members, medical issues, descriptions, so on and so forth. He tapped the page, satisfied. 

He closed the file and passed it back. 

“You don’t want to... Keep it?” she asked, confused. 

Spy shook his head and lit a new cigarette, with his own lighter. “I have what I need,” he turned on his heel and started to walk away. 

Miss Pauling grabbed his arm and held him still. “That's it?” she hampered, pulling him back. He sighed. 

“What will you do? Are you seriously going to fly to Australia? Kill them?” 

Spy shrugged her off and faced her once more. “Why do you care so much? You’ve killed the rest.”

“And I hate myself for it. I can't sleep at night! I haven't eaten since then. They were my best friends! And I murdered them because my boss ordered me to! I didn't even think about it! I just shot! I thought it was the best thing for them.” Miss Pauling rubbed her eyes, smearing a bit of mascara across her cheek. 

“Spy escaped because he has a will to live,” she said, “can you let him have that?” 

Spy’s expression was unreadable. “To put it simply Miss Pauling, there is not enough space in this world for two of me. It knows everything about me and can ruin me if it tries its best.” 

" _It_." she scoffed. 

He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. He didn't like dwelling on others feelings but he asked, “Do you have anywhere to go? Family? Your own house?” 

Miss Pauling scowled. “I have friends across the country. You’re avoiding my question- **are you going to hurt them?** ” 

Spy bite down on his cigarette. He rolled the lighter across his fingers. “Its nothing for you to worry about,” 

She made a frustrated movement with her hands. 

He gave her a look, "You're free now. You have your whole life ahead of you. You know how to look after yourself, you supposedly have friends to stay with. Live your life, and do not worry about others'. Especially not the lives of clones," 

"And what of Sniper? He was your teammate- _your friend_ , for eight years," she pried. 

"You are too naive, we were not friends," 

Miss Pauling raised a furious eyebrow, her hands on her hips. Spy flicked his cigarette away. "They mightn't even be together. It might have stabbed him in the back and left him in the gutter by now," 

She didn't like this idea. Instead of thinking about it she picked up her helmet, threw it on, slid onto her Vespa and drove away. She was done. Spy was already walking away. 


	12. Author's Note!?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (im sorry in advance)

Hello!

I know author’s notes are more of a Tumblr or Wattpad thing to post, not really for AO3 but I thought I owed you an explanation or two!

Firstly; 1300 reads????? THAT'S INSANE! Let alone the 88 kudos and fantastic comments! THANK YOU SO MUCH!! Thank you thank you thank you!! Who knew my blushy sniper/spy fic would turn out to be read, let alone read 1300 times! 

Your comments have made my year honestly. Even if they're not long, they fill me with such joy and pride. I'm so happy the random words I string together can entertain you! I literally cannot stop smiling!!!

  
  


This fic isn't being abandoned! Do not fear! I've got so many ideas  _ (and am soOOO close to getting to the smutty chapter I know everyone has been waiting for! I was making bullet points for how I was going to write it the other day and I got so blushy that I needed to take a breather outside. Sniper and Spy will be the death of me I promise you.) _

Life itself is so unpredictable nowadays, and I'm back in quarantine. I first thought, “ _ great! I can draw and write freely! I’ll have so much free time!” _

This was not the case :(

I've had a lot of work to do, even at home, and I have the worst writer's block right now! I feel like all my power has been sucked out of me and anytime i open the fic document i just get so tired and have to close it and open youtube instead. 

But, in saying that, I spent ALL day yesterday writing the next chapter! I didn't get much done, only a page or so, but I hope it will be published to read by the end of the month, in February at the latest! Cross your fingers! 

Another thing I should probably think about is how I'm going to finish the fic. I still have a lot more to write  _ (we’re only about halfway through, maybe even less. I might end up making over 25 more chapters at this rate.. _ ) but the story has changed SO MUCH since my first chapter. 

I was originally just planning on making the story about Sniper and Spy fucking and then deciding to run away to Australia after they were fired by BLU & RED.

But now it's very different. I don't want to spoil anything, but I have lots of little twists and new characters up my sleeves, not to mention many, many kissing and headboard slamming scenes. 

I'm pretty much the definition of  _ “make it up as you go along” _ . Every night I tuck myself into bed and close my eyes, just to have my mind bombarded with thoughts and ideas for the fic and many many more fics. I think “omg what if this, or what if sniper kissed spy there, or what if they went here, what if this looked like this,” and by the time i get up in the morning and open my laptop, the fic is completely different in my mind. I think you can kind of see this mumbo jumbo when reading the first chapters. I wrote Sniper and Spy as VERY different characters. OH WELL, I'll try to control myself a bit more. 

Ok this is turning less like a note and more like a novel, so ill leave it here. I hope you keep reading what i have to share in the future, i love you all and **THANK YOU FOR STICKING AROUND : >>>>**

_ (ps, thinking of writing another simple-quick-fuck SniperSpy, CHeavy x Medic, ANOTHER Sniperspy AU, Rhys x Jack, and maybe even Demo x scout????????????????????? my mind has been racing, i have way too many ideas of writing smut to be healthy <<<<333 ) _


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